tix  V  ' '  • 

I 


.  ‘  K. 

■ 


/? 


> 


it 


\ 


Lt% 


t 


\ 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 
in  2018  with  funding  from 
Getty  Research  Institute 


https://archive.org/details/saloncollectiono01carr_0 


CHARLOTTE  CORDAY, 


-Ai.lUlSL  L  hALL 

NEV/t’.  .iv]/ 


ff. 


■M’,- 


J 

I 


t 


I 


< 


f 


.  •;  ,/  sv  ••/V  .  . 


A 


4 


The  Salon 


A  COLLECTION 

OF  THE 

CHOICEST  PALYTINGS  RECENTLY  EXECUTED  BY 
DIS  TING  U I  SHED  E  UR  O  PEA  N  A  R  TIS  TS 

n.I.USTRATED  WITH  FORTY  PHOTOGRAVURES,  PREPARED  ESPECIALEY 
FOR  THIS  WORK  BY  MESSRS.  GOUPIL  &  CO..  OF  PARIS 

TOGETHER  WITH 

NUMEROUS  ORIGINAL  DESIGNS  BY  THI'I  MOST  EMINENT  MODERN 
PAINTERS,  REPRODUCED  I.N  FAC-SIMILE 


EDITED  BY 

Prof.  CHARLES  CARROLL 

OF  THE  NEW  YORK.  UNIVERSITY 


ASSISTED  BY  RENE  DELORME,  ARMAND  SILVESTRE,  GVSTAVE 
GOETSCIIV,  AND  OTHER  EOREIGN  EXPERTS. 


NEW  YORK 

SAMUEL  L .  HALL 

757  Broadway 

i88i 


Copyright,  i88i,  by  Samuel  L.  Hall 


Trow’s 

Printing  ano  I Iookbinding  Comimny, 
201-213  \2tk  Street, 


NEW  YORK. 


PREFACE. 


In  preparing"  the  present  work  the  publisher  aims  to 
oft'er  to  the  cultivated  portion  of  the  American  public  a  brief 
but  expressive  record,  which  shall  comprise  the  best  and 
latest  data  illustrating  the  present  state  of  French  delineati\  e 
art.  Viewed  in  this  light,  it  will  form,  he  ventures  to  hope, 
not  merely  a  source  of  pleasure,  an  entertaining  or  decora¬ 
tive  object  for  the  library  or  the  drawing-room,  but  a  means 
of  instruction  There  is  little  neetl  to  enlarge,  on  this  occa¬ 
sion,  on  the  merits  and  relative  position  in  art  of  the  modern 
French  school.  To  students  of  art-history  the  mere  mention 
of  such  names  as  Gerome,  Couture,  d'royon.  Millet,  Corot, 
Ingres,  Idelacroix,  Rousseau,  and  d’Aubign)',  is  ample  war¬ 
rant  for  the  statement  that  the  I'rench  painters  of  the  last 
half  century  have  had  a  vital,  if  not  predominating  influence 
on  the  whole  aesthetic  progress  and  culture  of  the  period. 
lApecially  has  this  been  felt  in  our  own  growing  school  ot 
representative  art.  The  crisj)  suggestiveness,  the  dramatic 
fire,  and  the  profound  scientiflc  knowledge  and  technique  of 
the  best  French  workmen  have  had  a  peculiarly  stimulating 
effect  on  the  receptive  and  adaptive  spirit  of  our  own  paint¬ 
ers.  It  is  not  too  much  to  say  that  the  strongest  and  most 
original  of  American  artists  have  been  among  the  most 


IV 


PR  EF  A  CE. 


earnest  to  adopt  and  develop  this  freshening  influence 
from  across  the  sea.  Many  of  them  are  proud  to  rank 
as  disciples  of  the  great  I'renchmen ;  and  whatever  be  the 
future  reserved  for  American  art,  its  development  can  hardly 
fail  to  show  abiding  traces  of  this  inspiring  and  guiding 
force. 

beyond  the  mere  satisfaction  of  the  eye, — the  temporary 
pleasure  to  be  gained  from  the  graceful  art  reproductions 
of  the  present  work, — lies  the  intellectual  interest  of  the 
comment.  In  preparing  the  letter-press  the  publishers  have 
not  attempted  to  furnish — as  is  not  uncommonly  done  in  simi¬ 
lar  cases — a  purely  popular  exposition,  addressed  to  a  class 
of  readers  presumably  little,  if  at  all,  versed  in  the  subject  mat¬ 
ter.  For  works  so  signiflcant  as  the  best  specimens  of  the 
Paris  Salon,  the  accompanying  text  should  evidently  take  a 
higher  range  than  the  mere  explanatory  legend  of  a  cheap 
picture-book.  The  material  most  appropriate  for  the  pur¬ 
pose  is  clearly  that  of  the  F'rench  edition — the  criticisms  of 
the  best  Parisian  fcnillctonistcs — marked  as  they  are  by  the 
subtle  but  liberal  appreciation,  the  clear  statement  and  the 
epigrammatic  point  so  characteristic  of  their  class.  The 
critical  element  of  P’rench  literature  thus  aptly  blends  with 
and  supplements  the  illustrative  inteiest  of  the  engravings. 
1  he  work  here  offered  is,  in  all  essentials  but  the  language, 
precisely  the  Paris  edition  of  the  “  Exposition  des  Beaux 
Arts.”  Thus  presented,  it  should  constitute  a  more  homo¬ 
geneous  whole  than  if  pieced  out  with  a  mere  Americanized 
commentary.  In  reliance,  therefore,  on  the  well-known  skill 
and  authority  of  the  gentlemen  commissioned  to  prepare  the 


PR  EF  A  CE. 


V 


original  letter-press,  it  has  been  translated  almost  literally. 
The  translator  has  striven  to  do  his  work  with  the  utmost 
possible  fidelity ;  to  give  the  whole  spirit,  and  nothing  but 
this,  of  his  original,  with  only  such  use  of  paraphrase,  such 
change  in  phrase  or  coloring,  as  may  be  necessary  in  order 
to  give  it  clearness  to  American  readers,  or  flow  and  smooth¬ 
ness  to  American  ears.  Whatever  deflciency  it  may  show, 
as  a  mere  matter  of  exegesis,  it  can  hardly  fail  to  supply  an 
instructive  pagm  of  concise  aesthetic  criticism,  as  suggestive 
and  significant,  in  its  own  way,  as  the  pictures  themselves. 

With  these  few  words  of  introduction  the  publisher  sub¬ 
mits  his  work  to  the  attention  of  art-lovers  throughout  the 

o 

country.  It  has  been  his  intent  to  appeal  to  a  high  and  cul¬ 
tivated  taste  rather  than  to  the  more  superficial  forms  of  so- 
called  popular  appreciation.  Whether  he  has  succeeded, 
the  public  estimate  of  his  enterprise  must  be  trusted  to  de¬ 
cide.  In  any  case,  it  may  be  permitted  him  to  modestly 
hope  for  such  measure  of  approval  as  is  fairly  due  to  well- 
meant  and  earnest  effort. 


I" 


ffr  ■ 


W 

I*-- 


4 


T*,. 


LIST  OF  PRIZES 


AWARDED  RV  THE  JURY 

AT  THE 

SALON  FOR  1880. 


PAINTING  AND  SCULPTURE. 


MEDALS  FOR  EXTRAORDINARY  MERIT. 

MoRDi'lAime  Nicolas).  Painting. 

TatLM.AS  (Gabriel  Jules),  Sculpture. 

SALON  PRIZE. 

SUCHETET  (Auguste). 

PAINTINCx. 

FIRST  CLASS  AIEDALS. 

DaGNAN-Bouveret  (Pascal  Adolphe). 

Leroll  (Henry). 

Pelez  (Fernand). 

C,4ZIN  (Jean  Charles). 

SECOND  CLASS  IMEUALS. 

Bourgeois  (L’rbain). 

Besnard  (Paul  Albert). 

CouRTOis  (Gustave). 

Dant.un  (Joseph  Eidouard). 

I'eyen  (Eugene). 

Gilbert  (Victor  Gabriel). 

Guillon  (Adolphe  Ircnee). 

Le  Blant  (Julien). 


\  111 


L  IS  T  OF  PRIZE  S. 


Lhermitte  (Leon  Augustin). 
Monvel  (Louis  Maurice  Boutet  dej. 
Renouf  (Emile). 

Rozier  (Dominique). 

Rougueron  (Jules  James). 
Vernier  (Emile). 

Vely  (Anatole). 

THIRD  CLASS  MEDALS. 

Aublet  (Henri). 

Auguin  (Louis  Augustin). 
B,4LL.4V0INE  (Jules  Frederic). 
Barillot  (Leon). 

Bonnefoy  (Henri). 

Beaumetz  (Etienne). 

Bo.mpart  (Maurice). 

Dupre  (Julien). 

Dawanl'  (Albert  Pierre). 

Euelfelt  (Albert). 

I'OUBERT  (Emile  Louis). 

Haquette  (Georges). 

Hareux  (Ernest  Victor). 

Krug  (Edouard). 

Larcher  (Jules). 

Lix  (Frederic  Theodore). 

M.arais  (Adolphe  Charles). 

Motte  (Henri  Paul). 

Muraton  (Mme.  Euphemie). 
Mouillun  Alfred). 

Peraire  (Paul  EmmanueP. 

OUGST  (Eugene),  faience. 

R.avaut  (Rene  Henri). 

Rivey  (Arsene). 

Valadon  (Jules  Emmanuel). 

HONORABLE  MENTION. 

Artz  (Adolphe). 

Backer  (Mile.  Harriette). 

Beyle  (Pierre  Marie). 
Bouchet-Doumencq  (Henri). 
Boudier  (Edouard  Louis). 

Boudet  (Leon). 

C-4LMETTES  (Fernand). 

Claude  (Eugene). 


LIST  OF  PRIZES. 


IX 


Colin  (Gustave  Henri'. 
Colin-Libour  (Mine.  Uranie). 
U.4RDOIZE  (Emile). 
Demont-Breton  (Mine.  Virginie). 
Uesbrosses  (Jean). 

Demarest  (Guillaume  Albert). 
Deve  (Eugene). 

Du  Paty  (Leon). 

Flameng  (Maria  Auguste). 

Fleury  (Mme.  Fannyj. 

Frappa  (JosG. 

Gieneutta  (Norbert). 

Guillaume  (Mile.  Noemie). 

J.4DIN  (Emmanuel  Charles). 
Laugee  (Georges). 

Leleux  (Mme.  Arinand  Emilie). 
Mauve  (Anton). 

Martin  (Francois). 

Matifas  (Louis). 

Michel-Levy. 

Morlot  (Alphonse  Ale.xis). 
PiCKNELL  (\V.  L.). 

Piot-Nurmand  (Alexandre). 
Pompon  (Paul). 

PoPELiN  (Gustave). 

Raub  (Charles  Francisque). 

Royer  (Lionel). 

Salome  (Emile). 

Saubes  (Leon  Daniel). 

Sauvaige  (Louis  Paul). 

Sauzay  (Adrien). 

Winter  (Pharaon  Abdon  Ldon  de). 


SCULPTURE. 

FIRST  CLASS  MEDALS. 
Lanson  (Alfred). 

SECOND  CLASS  MEDALS. 

Barrau  (Theophile). 

Boisseau  (femile  Andre). 
Dumaige  (Etienne  Henri). 
Gemito  (Vincenzo). 


X 


LIST  OF  PRIZES. 


Lefebvre  (Louis). 

Lombard  (Edouard  Henri). 

Paris  (Auguste). 

SucHETEi'  (Auguste). 

THIRD  CLASS  MEDALS. 

Borrel  (Alfred),  medallion  cngra\in 
Broussard  (Andre  Pierre  Henri). 
COULON  (Jean). 

Dore  (Gustave). 

Enderlin  (Joseph  Louis). 

Gatti  (Jesualdo). 

Guglielmo  (Lange). 

Longepied  (Leon  Eugene). 
Lecourtiep  ( Prosper). 
iMORE.AU  (Louis  Auguste). 

Ple  (Henri  Honore). 

Richard  (Felix). 

Rodin  (Auguste). 

Roger  (Fr.in9ois). 

Vaudet  (Auguste  Alfred). 


HONORABLE  MENTION. 

Beylard  (Charles). 

Basset  (Urhainf 
Beer  (Frederic). 

Bion  (Paul  Laurent). 

Cornu  (\Mtal). 

D  A  R 1 ;  E  F  e  u  I L  L  E  ( P  a  u  1 ) . 
Godebski  (Cyprien). 

LoRiMIEr  (Edouard). 

Mouly  (Jean  Joseph  Fi'anqois). 
Oge  (Pierre  Marie  Francois) 
Perrin  (Jacques). 

Pezieux  (Jean  Alexandre). 
Robert  (Eugene). 

Saint-G AUDENS  (Augustin). 
Thomas  (Mile.  Mathilde). 


The  explorer  who 
would  make  his  way 
through  the  Fine  Arts 
Exhibition  this  year  must 
go  axe  in  hand,  so  dense 
is  the  tan  cried  under- 
brush,  the  bewildering 
and  tormenting  chaparral 
of  poor  works,  without 
thought,  or  scope,  or  tal¬ 
ent,  or  ideal  range.  Bet¬ 
ter  than  the  axe  might 
be  the  torch,  as  readiest 
means  of  cure  for  this 
epidemic  of  paint  which, 
year  by  year,  gets  more 
intense  and  more  terrible. 


HISTORICAL  FAINTING. 


Oh  !  for  some  purifying  influence  to  clear  the  air  of  the 
miasma  which  is  slowly,  but  surely,  sapping  the  life  of 
l^'rench  art ! 

Even  now,  the  better  class  of  artists,  who  shun  puff¬ 
ing  and  self-advertisement,  are  flocking  away  from  the 
annual  salon.  How  shall  the  younger  generation  grow 
in  strength  and  wisdom,  when  their  masters  are  driven  in 
disgust  to  their  tents  ?  Though  it  may  sound  like  preaching 
in  the  wilderness,  it  must  be  said  that  the  Salon  is  no  place 
to  unpack  and  put  on  view,  for  a  month  or  two,  the  toy-shop 
wares  of  cheap  incompetence.  The  .Salon  should  stand  wide 
open  to  originality,  skill,  and  knowledge,  and  to  none  other. 

It  is  not  very  clear  why  first-class  workmen  should  risk 
appearing  at  all  in  such  an  incongruous  medley.  Most  surely, 
if  Delacroix,  Ingres,  Rousseau,  Troyon,  or  Millet  were  alive, 
they  would  not  appear  on  the  walls  ;  and  whoso  has  any 
doubt  on  the  matter  need  only  ask  why  Jules  Dupre  stays 
away. 

And  so,  having  aired  our  mind,  and  said  our  word  of 
justifiable  vexation,  let  us  begin  at  once  with  the  Historical 
Painters — a  vague  sort  of  term  not  very  easy  to  define. 
Wdth  a  little  care,  however,  we  may  hope  not  to  trench  on 
the  labors  of  our  colleao-ues  who  are  to  treat  the  other  de- 

O 

partments  represented  this  )'ear  on  the  walls  of  the  Palais 
des  Champs-Elysees. 

Pass,  then,  respectfully,  but  without  lingering,  before  the 
nol>le  contributions  of  Jules  Breton  and  Eerolle — landscapes 
— but  historical  landscapes  with  figures — and  let  us  get 
straight  to  the  work  of  Puvis  de  Chavannes,  “  Young  Pi¬ 
cards  Practisiiig  with  the  Spear." 

This  cartoon  is  colossal  in  size,  and  fills  one  of  the  walls 
of  the  large  end  room  on  the  right  as  you  come  in  by  the 
square  chamber.  It  is  a  masterly  work,  in  which  the  artist 


Bf.R  I  HANI)  (J.) — May^Kcritc  in  ihc  Church. 


Duchesne  (1-2  )  —  Cluirlotte  Corday- 


Pexnt  j?ar  Couftouf 


Phoh’oi'iivurr'  A  (  ' 


DANTE  AND  VIRGIL 


HALL, 

NJ^WYORK 


I 


HISTORICAL  PAINTING. 


7 


of  the  earlier  cartoons — Peace,  Labor,  War,  Rest,  and  Sleep, 
of  the  five  paintings  in  the  Amiens  Museum,  and  of  the  Pan¬ 
theon  frescoes,  has  illustrated  the  new  theme  of  patriotic 
sports — a  fitting  and,  as  it  were,  necessary  pendant  to 
his  wonderful  decorations  in  the  museum  of  the  Picard 
capital. 

The  undertaking  was  daring,  and  the  result  one  which 
may  well  interest  the  most  indifferent  observer.  Its  striking 
points  are  the  style,  the  bold  and  dashing  treatment  of  the 
whole  picture  ;  its  purity  of  drawing  ;  its  intense  action  ;  its 
varied  movement  ;  and,  with  all  its  studied  simplicity  and  al¬ 
most  abruptness  of  treatment,  its  naturalness.  The  Amiens 
authorities  can  hardly  fail  to  feel  its  charm,  and  bespeak  the 
execution  of  this  powerful  sketch  to  complete  the  decoration 
of  their  museum. 

Of  the  heroic  style,  a  good  specimen  is  the  fine  ceiling 
— The  Triumph  of  P'rench  Sculpture — by  M.  Tony  Robert- 
Fleury,  intended  for  the  Palace  of  the  Luxembourg. 

The  well-known  artist  of  the  “  Warsaw  Massacre,”  the 
“  Pillage  of  Corinth,”  and  of  “  Pinel,”  makes  his  first  attempt 
at  decorative  painting  with  masterly  brilliance  and  effect.  No 
coarse  or  exaggerated  treatment,  no  offensive  boldness  of 
coloring,  no  forced  display  of  perspective,  but  an  able,  and 
expressive  synthesis  of  his  theme  ;  and  all  with  but  two  fig¬ 
ures.  Sculpture  sits  pensive  on  a  throne  of  clouds,  her  left 
hand  resting  in  a  natural  and  easy  attitude  on  her  bent  knees, 
and  her  right  hand  pointing  to  the  symbols  of  the  statuary’s 
art.  Fame,  with  outstretched  wings,  holds  in  her  left  hand 
her  hundred-voiced  trumpet,  while  with  her  right  she  pre¬ 
pares  to  place  a  laurel  crown  on  the  head  of  Sculpture.  The 
pure  and  serene  sky  about  the  figures  is  filled  with  fluttering 
amoretti ;  and  a  medallion  border  gives  finish  to  this  ver)- 
happy  composition,  as  calm  as  it  is  strong,  one  of  the  most 


8 


HISTORICAL  PAINTING. 


noteworthy  ceilings  which  have  come  under  our  notice  for 
many  years. 

M.  d'hirion’s  two  cartoons  for  the  War  Office  have  also 
some  excellent  decorative  merits.  In  the  first,  the  artist  has 
very  happily  acquitted  himself  in  handling  a  theme — “Law 
delended  by  I'orce  ” — to  which  events  not  long  past  have 
lent  a  certain  tinge  of  irony.  “  Law,”  personified  by  a  grace¬ 
ful  female  figure,  sits  in  an  attitude  of  repose,  intent  on  the 
tablets  of  the  social  code,  which  rest  upon  her  knees.  A 
little  apart,  Force,  represented  as  a  warrior,  in  vestment  of 
fur,  leans  with  head  and  arm  against  a  truncated  pillar,  in  a 
proud  firmness  of  attitude  very  discouraging  to  any  interrup¬ 
tion  of  his  tranquillity.  The  artistic  and  studied  folds  of  the 
drapery  in  the  Avork  suggest  the  striking  style  and  warm 
tone  of  eighteenth  century  decoration,  but  the  composition 
is  original,  and  the  execution  masterly.  M.  Thirion’s  second 
bit  is  “France  in  Arms  offering  Peace,”  a  fitting  pendant,  in 
all  regards,  to  the  other.  His  figure,  “Euterpe,”  is  a  good 
illustration  of  his  readiness  and  versatility  in  handling  widely 
diftering  subjects. 

M.  Pastien  Lepage,  working  on  parallel  lines  with  Jules 
Preton  and  Millet,  without  exactly  trenching  on  their  specific 
field,  exhibits  this  year  a  Jeanne  d’Arc,  which  is  destined  to 
make  a  stir  in  artistic  circles — a  Jeanne  d’Arc  which  is  alto¬ 
gether  fresh  and  original  in  conception,  not  at  all  like  the 
same  heroine  as  painted  by  Chapu  or  Fremiet,  but  com¬ 
pletely  naturalistic  in  treatment.  True  to  the  rural  instincts 
of  his  birth  and  education,  the  artist  has  sacrificed  the 
legendary  element  to  the  interests  of  realism.  His  point  of 
view,  though  novel,  has  ample  artistic  warrant.  To  his  eye 
the  heroic  maid  appears  rustic,  if  not  coarse,  of  outward 
seeming,  but  with  a  certain  poetry  in  her  very  simplicity — 
a  plain  country-girl,  such  as  he  has  already  painted  in  his 


'I'oNY-ROBEH'r  I'LF.l'RY. —  The  Triumph  of  French  Sculpiure. 


{ Fragment. ) 


HISTORICAL  PAINTING.  II 

“Potato  Harvesters” — a  face  whose  subtle  meaning  lights 
up  hard  and  homely  features,  and  a  form  in  which  dignity 
and  grace  are  veiled,  if  not  hidden,  by  her  sordid  peasant 
dress.  Under  this  coarse  exterior  the  spectator  is  left  to 
guess  the  soul,  glowing  with  mystic  faith  and  ardor,  its 
native  innocence  lit  by  a  ray  of  divine  inspiration  which 
warms  its  latent  devotion  to  life,  till  its  germs  of  patriotic 


self-sacrifice  blossom  in  noble  achievement,  and  the  poor  ser¬ 
vant-maid  becomes  the  saviour  of  her  country.  It  is  far  from 
our  intent  to  discuss  M.  Lepage’s  standpoint;  we  merely 
state  the  ideal  he  has  clearly  had  in  view.  Wdiy  not  say  at 
once  that  we  heartily  sympathize  with  it }  The  picture  of 
the  poor  rustic  drudge,  listening  to  her  voices  in  the  orchard 
of  her  father’s  little  farm,  has  a  singular  power  over  the 
emotions,  and  so  presented,  it  has  a  finer  sublimity  than 


HISTORICAL  PAINTIXG. 


I  2 

under  the  graceful  and  angelic  guise  in  Avhich  the  por¬ 
traiture  has  so  often  been  essayed.  It  is  to  be  regretted, 
however,  that  the  painter  has  tried  to  give  visible  delinea¬ 
tion  to  the  voices.  The  public  and  the  heroine  are  on  the 
same  footing  in  the  matter.  i\s  she  ditl  not  see  her  voices, 
neither  should  the  spectator  be  made  to  see  them,  but 
should  be  left  to  infer  them  from  the  expression  of  her 
features.  Still  there  is  interest  and  instruction  in  the  work 
of  an  artist  Avho  essays  to  cpiit  the  beaten  track  and  speak  a 
new  artistic  language.  Misunderstood,  perhaps,  at  first,  his 
effort  will  in  the  end  com[)el  renewed  attention,  and  the 
appreciation  it  merits. 

There  are  noble  traits  in  the  picture  by  Gervex,  “  Sou¬ 
venir  of  the  Nitjht  of  the  Fourth.”  The  theme  is  the  melan- 
choly  episode  sung  by  Victor  Hugo  in  the  extract  from  the 
“  Chatiments,”  which  opens  with  the  verse - 

“  The  child  zvas  shot — tzvo  balls  in  his  brain." 

In  a  garret  room  a  poor  old  woman,  weeping  with  eyes 
where  age  has  almost  dried  the  fount  of  tears,  is  undressing 
the  gasping  figure  of  her  little  grandson,  while  the  doctor, 
among  the  surrounding  group  of  men,  indicates  by  his  atti¬ 
tude  that  all  is  over.  Among  the  horrified  spectators  in  the 
background  are  seen  the  faces  of  Victor  Hugo  and  Edward 
Plouvier,  the  last  a  poor  portrait.  Murky  lamplight  falls  on 
the  centre  of  the  picture,  while  the  rest  of  the  garret  is  in 
darkness,  and  the  Avhole  makes  up  a  composition  full  of 
promising  qualities,  and  strongly  marked  with  the  best  traits 
of  the  modern  school.  It  is  a  live  work  ;  it  carries  its  pain¬ 
ful  meaning  straight  to  the  heart  and  brings  the  tears  to  our 
eyes  with  a  direct  impressiveness  we  are  almost  tempted  to 
complain  of  hardly  need  the  aid  of  painting  to  inten- 


•  'f 


Bol'LANGI'.R  (G.)— /'’or  Coiditry. 


HISTORICAL  PAINTING. 


17 


sify  the  lesson  of  sorrow  which  Hugo,  the  avenging  poet, 
has  already  graven  so  deep  in  his  terrible  verse. 

In  the  sudden  and  surprising  changes  of  front  among 
the  artists  of  this  year’s  salon,  one  of  the  most  notewor¬ 
thy  is  the  new  departure  of  M.  Luminais.  Quitting  for  a 
moment  the  realm  of  legend — his  ancient  Gauls,  his  picket 
truards  and  combats  of  heroes,  and  buckler-enthroned  chief- 
tains — he  returns  to  history;  the  Punishment  by  Clovis  of 
his  rebellious  sons.  The  two  poor  wretches,  hamstrung 
and  cast  upon  a  float,  are  slowly  drifting  down  the  .Seine 
toward  the  Abbey  of  Jumieges,  where  chance  shall  bring 
their  raft  to  shore  and  gain  them  asylum.  The  subject  is 
too  deliberately  tragic  to  greatly  stir  the  feelings,  the  compo¬ 
sition  and  detail  too  carefully  scientific  and  correct  to  leave 
us  much  impulsive  illusion.  Yet  through  all  the  theatrical 
paraphernalia  we  still  trace  the  sad  lines  of  sober  history, 
calling  up,  with  a  strange  earnestness  and  sting  of  reality, 
the  stern  facts  of  the  past,  and  casting  the  shadow  of  Shake¬ 
spearean  tragedy  over  the  old  fable  of  the  chronicler. 

M.  J.  P.  Laurens  carries  out  the  logical  direction  of  his 
own  imaginative  development  in  the  singular  bit  which  he 
exhibits  this  year,  “  Honorius  (Later  Empire).”  The  child 
emperor  sits  holding  in  one  hand  the  sword,  in  the  other 
the  globe,  while  the  diadem  on  his  brow  casts  over  his 
almost  childish  features  the  restless  shadow  of  power,  the 
painful  responsibility  of  sole  authority.  His  sad,  hxed  gaze 
seems  as  if  bent,  in  question,  on  the  horizon  of  the  future,  a 
horizon  lurid  with  sunset  clouds  of  blood  and  ruin.  With 
its  precise  rigidity,  its  strongly  marked  character,  and  its 
monotonous  coloring,  the  work  looks  as  if  it  had  just  stepped 
out  of  some  quaint  old  Byzantine  frame. 

We  shall  speak,  farther  on,  of  the  various  interpreta¬ 
tions  of  Charlotte  Corday,  for  which  M.  d'urquet,  with  his 


i8 


HISTORICAL  PAINTING. 


sympathetic  feeling  for  classification,  has  set  apart  a  special 
room.  But  before  touchinor  on  the  terrible  drama  which 

o 

has  consecrated  the  slayer  of  Marat  as  the  avenging  angel 
of  assassination,  it  would  be  fitting  to  glance  one  instant, 
with  M.  Mclino-ue,  at  the  domestic  life  of  the  great  dema- 
gogue,  “  the  people’s  friend.”  In  Melingue’s  picture,  Marat 
is  working  in  bed,  with  proobsheets  scattered  about  the 
floor,  his  pen  between  his  teeth,  and  his  thoughts  busy — if 
we  may  judge  by  his  frowning  brow — with  matters  of  pain¬ 
ful  moment.  The  fittings  and  furniture  of  the  room,  all  the 
appurtenances  of  this  terrible  episode,  are  interesting  in 
their  realism  and  absolute  fidelity  to  fact,  a  fidelity,  however, 
which  must  be  taken  on  trust ;  as  the  pick  and  spade  of 
modern  improvement  have  swept  away  the  authentic  build¬ 
ing  which  stood  at  the  corner  of  the  Rue  de  I’Ecole  de 
Medecine,  opposite  the  Rue  Dupuytren.  In  the  narrow 
limits  of  an  easel  picture  M.  Lucien  Melingue  has,  with  his 
usual  ability,  given  a  very  sincere  and  graphic  rendering  of 
a  striking  page  in  history,  an  instructive  memorial  amply 
worth  preserving. 

A  pupil  of  Gerome’s  first  manner,  M.  Courtois,  inspired 
at  once  by  Dante  and  Gustave  Dore,  takes  us  into  one  of 
the  circles  of  the  Inferno — among  the  traitors  who  have  be- 
trayed  their  country.  The  work  gives  sign  of  some  praise¬ 
worthy  talent,  but  shows,  throughout,  far  more  literary 
knowledge  than  skill  in  execution.  It  is  a  scrap  of  dry  and 
studied  learning,  with  nothing  emotional  in  it,  save  perhaps 
in  the  figures  of  Dante  and  Virgil — dry  with  a  conscious 
correctness  in  which  it  would  be  pleasant  to  catch  some  hint 
of  erasure  or  afterthought.  Still,  as  an  attempt,  and  in  view 
of  M.  Courtois’  previous  efforts,  it  is  worth  mention. 

With  M.  Sautai  we  follow  Dante  into  exile.  Banished 
from  his  native  soil,  his  wife  and  children  driven  from  the 


HISTORICAL  FAINTING. 


19 


roof  which  had  sheltered  their  domestic  peace,  he  sets  forth 
on  his  painful  journey,  to  beg  at  Sienna  and  Arezzo  a  nig¬ 
gardly  and  unwilling  hospitality.  M.  Sautai  has  chosen  for 
his  sketch  a  moment  when  the  great  poet  was  fain  to  rest 
his  weary  limbs  on  the  benches  outside  the  palace  walls, 
where  he  sits  musing  and  abstracted,  in  a  quiet  corner,  with 
his  modest  bundle — his  only  baggage — beside  him.  A  knot 
of  two  or  three  citizens  are  curiously  scanning  his  features, 
worn  by  that  inner  flame  and  travail  of  the  spirit  which  con¬ 
sumes  the  flesh  as  the  sword  its  scabbard.  The  canvas  is 
radiant  with  a  keen  interest  far  more  engrossing  than  the 
comparatively  mechanical  work  of  M.  Courtois.  Clearly,  the 
emotional  element  in  art  is  one  of  its  most  resistless  fascina¬ 
tions,  and  the  one  which  all  art-lovers  are  inclined  to  demand. 
We  wish  to  feel  in  an  aesthetic  work — to  see  all  over  it,  so  to 
speak — the  clearly  defined  traces  of  the  artist’s  thought ;  to 
read  in  it  the  record  of  his  doubts,  his  cares,  and  his  aims, 
till  we  enter  so  closely  into  sympathy  with  his  labor  and  its 
processes  that  we  seem  to  feel  his  very  heart-beats.  This  is 
what  a  cultivated  appreciation  e.xacts  of  all  noble  work,  and 
this  alone  holds  sway  over  our  sensibility ;  the  creative  work¬ 
man,  as  in  the  famous  maxim  of  Horace,  must  begin  by  feel¬ 
ing  himself  the  joys  and  sorrows  he  would  impart  to  us. 

This  almost  self-evident  principle  may  e.xplain  the  in¬ 
difference  with  which  we  are  tempted  to  hurry  past  many 
wmrks  of  considerable  merit  in  mere  mechanical  regards, 
works  which,  in  spite  of  skilful  and  laudable  execution,  lead 
to  no  fine  sesthetic  result,  and  leave  no  enduring  impression. 

What,  for  example,  do  we  bring  away  from  M.  Besnard’s 
‘‘After  Defeat:  an  Episode  of  War  and  Invasion  in  the  Fifth 
Century  ?  ”  In  this  inconclusive  effort  everything  is  left  crude, 
weak,  and  imperfect.  The  observer  may  infer,  to  be  sure, 
that  a  great  battle  has  been  fought,  a  town  taken  and  sacked. 


20 


HISTORICAL  PAINTING, 


while  the  Inhabitants,  driven  In  terror  from  their  homes,  are 
wandering  forth  on  the  sad  chance  of  finding  or  founding,  on 
some  kindlier  shore,  other  firesides  and  other  roof-trees. 
The  composition  is  w'orked  out  with  painful  and  inordinate 
minuteness,  but  shows  no  fine  qualities  to  justify  the  outlay. 
The  drawing  is  hopelessly  bad,  the  masses  chaotic  and  broken 
up,  so  as  to  leave  no  main  point  of  concentration  for  the  eye 
and  thou£rht,  and  the  execution  is  weak  and  morbid.  For 
an  easel-painting  of  moderate  size  the  subject  would  have 
done  well  enough  ;  it  is  pitiful  to  see  a  good  theme  watered 
and  diluted  to  fill  ten  times  its  proper  space.  In  aiming  at 
the  large,  the  artist  has  merely  succeeded  in  being  exagger¬ 
ated  and  out  of  proportion.  M.  besnard  is  not  one  of  the 
men  of  emotion,  and  so  we  leave  him. 

We  have  no  better  luck  with  M.  Matejko,  a  sensational 
painter,  who  falls  this  year  far  behind  what  his  former  con¬ 
tributions  might  lead  us  to  hope.  Perhaps  it  is  well  to  know 
that  long  ago,  on  July  15,  1410,  there  was  fought  at  Griine- 
wald  a  mighty  battle  between  the  Poles  and  the  Order  of 
Teutonic  Knights.  But  in  1880  no  one  knows  or  cares  about 
this  old-time  fight,  nor  are  we  much  the  better  off  for  M. 
Matejko’s  picture.  Here  are  some  forty  square  yards  of 
canvas  plentifully  covered  with  paint,  but  what  it  is  all  about 
is  not  so  clear.  The  average  spectator  will  wish  he  could 
pay  a  professional  Investigator  to  pick  out  the  heart  of  the 
mystery,  and  verily  he  would  earn  his  money.  The  cata¬ 
logue,  to  be  sure,  informs  us  that  it  was  a  terrible  struggle — 
nearly  two  hundred  thousand  warriors  engaged — and  the 
slaughter  something  without  parallel  in  history.  But  the 
painting  tells  us  little  or  nothing,  and  interests  us,  if  possi¬ 
ble,  still  less.  In  short,  the  “Battle  of  Griinewald”  is  a 
vast  spread  of  canvas,  chaotic  and  hasty  in  plan,  and  blun¬ 
dering  in  execution,  which  looks  for  all  the  world  like  a  great 


1 


I’Al.MAKDl  1  (V.) — Jihitnhc  of  iWn'iH  rc. 


r 


EMPERIOR  HONORIUS 


oAMULL  I.  HALL 
fTEWr'OPX 


Dk  Cm. I, IAS  {II. ) — I  he  Self-Devotion  of  the  Chevalier  c/'.lssm 


HISTORICAL  PAINTING. 


25 


bit  of  decorative  paper-hanging.  It  would  make  a  very  good 
puzzle,  on  a  gigantic  scale,  for  ingenious  and  idle  people, 
who  might  pass  hours  in  piecing  out  and  fitting  together  the 
corresponding  legs,  heads,  and  bodies  of  these  furious  com¬ 
batants,  who,  by  the  by,  look  as  little  furious  as  may  be,  with 
all  their  ostensible  rage  for  extermination.  Standing  before 
such  a  work  as  this,  the  mind  impulsively  recurs  to  other 
artists — men  who  have  really  painted  history.  Remember¬ 
ing  Delacroix,  with  his  “  Battle  of  Nancy”  and  his  “  Taille- 
bourg  Bridge,”  we  see  at  a  glance  the  vast  gulf  between 
the  mere  manipulation  of  colors  and  the  genius  which  has 
power  to  call  back  the  past  and  set  it  in  visible  pre.sence  be¬ 
fore  us.  Farther  back,  but  still  within  the  limits  of  this  cen¬ 
tury,  we  summon  up  in  thought  the  pale  features  of  Gericault, 
and  with  them  comes  the  memory  of  his  picture,  now  in  the 
Louvre — “The  Wounded  Cuirassier” — a  work  whose  mere 
recollection,  simorests  a  certain  shudder  of  artistic  emotion — 

o  o 

one  single,  stern  figure,  an  entire  poem  in  itself,  before  whose 
uplifted  sword  the  whole  crowd  of  M.  Matejko’s  manufac¬ 
tured  warriors  would  fiee  in  dismay. 

In  the  Square  Room,  with  the  “  Battle,”  we  can  merely 
mention  the  “  Miraculous  Draught  of  Fishes,”  by  M.  Le- 
hoLix ;  a  work  mainly  to  be  noted  for  the  indication  it  gives 
of  premature  artistic  decline  in  the  painter,  though  it  took 
a  prize  in  the  Salon  of  1874. 

M.  Lix  has  tried  to  put  fresh  life  into  “  Camille  Des¬ 
moulins  at  the  Palais  Royal,”  but  has  fallen  short  of  the  suc¬ 
cess  he  aimed  at  and  doubtless  hoped.  He  has  given  us 
merely  a  gigantic  lithograph,  no  more.  His  friends  would 
be  better  pleased  to  recognize  his  hand  in  those  “  Scenes  of 
Alsacian  Life  ”  in  which  he  is  really  strong. 

M.  Ravaut,  on  the  other  hand,  a  pupil  of  J.  P.  Laurens 
and  Butin,  sends  a  contribution  which  has  excited  general 


26 


HISTORICAL  PAINTING. 


attention.  The  subject  is  “  A  Child  Raised  to  Life  by  St. 
Renedict.”  M.  Ravaut,  palpably  following  in  the  footsteps  of 
M.  Olivier  Merson,  opens  his  career  with  a  very  earnest  and 
significant  production,  in  which  he  has  treated  a  purely  legen¬ 
dary  theme  with  the  warmth  and  vivacity  of  human  feeling. 

It  would  be  pleasant  to  be  able  to  say  as  much  of  M. 
Georges  Recker,  with  his  “Christian  Martyr”  dying  at  the 
foot  of  a  stairway — a  stairway  as  unlike  Jacob’s  as  possible 
-peppered  with  arrows  by  three  warriors  above  in  the  guise 
of  Zulu  savages. 

Refore  leaving  the  vestibule  of  the  Scpiare  Room  the 
visitor  should  notice  the  mural  paintings  of  M.  Collin,  which 
show  traces  of  imitation  of  Puvis  de  Chavannes,  Priou,  and 
others. 

In  another  quarter  of  the  Exhibition  Ruilding,  M.  Gus¬ 
tave  Roulanger  exhibits  an  Invocation  to  Patriotism,  very 
lofty  and  martial  in  style  and  manner.  The  artist  leads  us  to 
the  land  of  the  ancient  Gauls — or  Franks  rather,  to  judge  by 
the  costumes  and  accoutrements.  A  group  of  warriors  are 
setting  forth  to  battle,  turning,  however,  for  the  last  words 
of  warlike  cheer  and  inspiration  from  their  Druid  priest.  To 
their  fierce  ardor  no  danger  seems  formidable,  no  achieve¬ 
ment  impossible.  There  is  great  beauty  in  the  figures  of  the 
lovers,  locked  in  close  and  farewell  embrace,  and  great  power 
in  the  contrasted  group  at  the  right,  where  the  most  eager 
of  the  combatants  presses  forward  in  response  to  the  trum¬ 
pet-call  of  the  picket  in  the  middle  distance.  M.  Rou¬ 
langer  has  been  complacently  dallying  for  a  long  time  past 
with  a  namby-pamby  class  of  subjects  which  it  is  pleasant 
to  see  him  throw  aside  for  work  worthy  of  his  manliness 
and  real  force. 

The  story  of  Marat,  already  alluded  to  in  connection 
with  the  remarkable  picture  of  M.  Lucien  Melingue,  is 


HISTORICAL  PAINTING. 


29 


illustrated  under  sundry  forms  in  this  year’s  exhibition.  It 
would  hardly  become  the  aesthetic  commentator  to  drop  the 
thread  of  critical  remark  and  enlarge  upon  the  details  of 
revolutionary  history,  nor  would  all  the  ink  he  might  shed 
in  the  task  do  much  toward  whitening  the  character  of 
this  unlovable  personage,  most  reprehensible  perhaps  in  that 
he  did  more  than  almost  any  man  of  his  time  to  discredit 
the  great  popular  uprising  of  1789.  A  monster  of  cruelty, 
he  was  only  the  more  dangerous  from  the  very  sincerity 
and  disinterestedness  of  his  fanaticism.  If  we  may  trust 
the  intense  and  vivid  portraiture  of  David,  the  misnamed 
“Friend  of  the  People”  was  not  alien  to  touches  of 
human  feeling  and  benevolence.  By  an  autograph  note — 
the  last  he  ever  wrote — he  is  said  to  have  directed  the 
sending  a  small  sum  in  assignats  to  some  poor  woman 
whose  name  has  escaped  record. 

After  such  a  master-work  as  David’s  Marat,  it  might 
be  thought  that  later  artists  who  were  tempted  to  follow  in 
his  steps  in  the  treatment  of  historical  subjects,  would  at  least 
have  hesitated  to  take  up  the  same  theme.  But  the  present 
exhibition  refutes  the  surmise,  and  gives  further  proof  of  the 
old  principle  that  art  is  as  endless  as  effort,  and  ever  renews 
or  tries  to  renew  itself  in  infinite  series  of  reproduction.  The 
several  contributions  of  Messrs.  Weertz,  Clere,  and  Aviat, 
in  the  same  room,  are  all  devoted  to  the  Death  of  Marat. 

M.  Clere  has  given  us  a  triptych  with  three  compart¬ 
ments — Charlotte  Corday  Ascending  the  Winding  Staircase 
to  Marat’s  Rooms — The  Assassination — and,  finally,  her 
arrest.  The  whole  may  be  summed  up  as  a  good  deal  of 
work  and  elaboration  for  a  very  meagre  result. 

M.  WTertz  has  chosen  for  his  picture  the  moment  when 
Marat’s  room  is  crowded  with  the  revolted  populace  of  the 
“  Sections  ”  and  the  lower  class  of  working-women.  The 


30 


HISTORICAL  FAINTING. 


latter,  transformed  by  Revolutionary  rage  into  furies  of  the 
guillotine,  seem  bent  on  tearing  the  heroic  assassin  limb 
from  limb,  while  Charlotte  Corday,  in  momentary  terror  at 
their  onslaught  rather  than  remorse  for  the  terrible  deed 
accomplished,  recoils  against  the  wall.  The  artist's  version 
differs  radically  from  the  conception  to  which  contemporary 
record  has  accustomed  us.  History  has  reported  her  as  an 
avemjinof  force — a  heroine.  In  makino-  her  a  vulrar  crimi- 
nal  M.  Weertz  has  either  misread  the  facts  or  lacked  power 
for  a  hio^her  treatment. 

o 

In  whatever  light  we  examine  the  character  of  Char¬ 
lotte  Corday,  we  are  forced  to  one  of  two  conclusions — to 
view  her  either  as  a  monomaniac,  insane  on  the  one  point 
of  takincr  venofeance  on  the  monster,  Marat,  or  as  one  of  that 
larger  class  of  political  assassins  who  lay  their  plans,  carry 
them  into  execution,  and  offer  their  lives  in  penalty,  all  with 
e([ual  deliberation  and  self-possession.  In  paying  this 
penalty,  political  assassins  are  always  clothed,  to  their  own 
eyes  at  least,  in  the  robes  of  martyrdom,  and  they  meet 
their  fate  martyr-like,  without  coarse  bravado,  but  without 
shrinking  or  fear.  By  the  weakness  and  cheapness  he  has 
put  into  the  figure  and  attitude  of  his  heroine,  as  by  the 
panic  with  which  she  seems  overwhelmed,  M.  Weertz  in¬ 
dicates  a  totally  different  view. 

A  very  different  work  is  the  Charlotte  Corday  of  M. 
Aviat,  different  in  type  as  in  locality.  Again  the  scene  is 
Marat’s  room,  but  a  room,  this  time,  which  gives  signs  of 
having  been  orderly,  neat,  and  trim,  before  the  accomplish¬ 
ment  of  the  fatal  act.  Marat,  reclining  in  his  bath-tub, 
might  be  thought  asleep,  and  the  hand  of  death  seems  to 
have  lent  a  certain  peaceful  and  humane  expression  to  his 
usually  haggard  features,  an  imaginative  element  in  com¬ 
mon  with  the  conception  and  treatment  of  David’s  picture. 


HISTORICAL  PAINTING. 


Behind  the  window  curtains,  white  and  clean  as  the  hangings 
of  a  school-girl’s  chamber,  Charlotte  tries  to  shut  out  the 
sight  of  the  hideous  work  her  own  hands  have  wrought. 
On  her  calm  features  can  be  read  no  trace  of  the  terrible 
emotion  which,  we  feel,  must  be  raging  within.  Yet  in  her 
whole  mien  and  attitude  is  a  sort  of  tragic  elevation  and 
e.xcitement  which  enfolds  her  like  a  mantle,  and  prompts  the 
pallid  gleam  of  a  half-smile  which  plays  upon  her  ashy  lips. 
The  spectator  sees  at  a  glance  that  she  is  listening  to  the 
hurried  footsteps  which  come  storming  up  the  staircase,  that 
each  thundering  knock  at  the  door  finds  its  echo  in  her  very 
soul,  and  her  excited  imagination  stands  face  to  face  with 
the  whole  terrible  drama  of  discovery  and  retribution.  So 
drawn,  the  whole  situation  is  evident,  logical,  and  cogent, 
far  more  impressive  in  its  awful  and  mute  relation  of  the  two 
actors — the  dead  victim  alone  with  his  living  slayer,  than 
amid  all  the  cheap  and  commonplace  accessories  with  which 
M.  Aviat’s  rivals  have  tried  to  fill  out  their  pictures. 

The  execution  is  thoughtful  and  discreet,  and  shows 
a  noteworthy  elegance  of  style,  especially  in  the  masterly 
handling  of  the  whole  scale  of  tone  in  the  white  and  gray 
tints.  M.  Emery  Duchesne  closes  the  list  with  a  Charlotte 
Corday  “Going  to  Execution,”  an  excellent  commencement, 
full  of  promise  for  the  future. 

In  the  “  La  Tour  d’Auvergne,”  of  M.  Moreau  de  Tours, 
there  are  some  excellent  features  very  successfully  handled. 
The  hero  of  the  army  of  the  Rhine,  the  warrior  of  Unter- 
hausen,  lies  dying  of  a  lance-wound  through  the  heart,  while 
a  comrade  gently  raises  the  body,  and  the  scattered  sur¬ 
vivors  of  his  division  gather  about  him  to  assist  in  the 
last  sad  offices.  The  main  fault  of  the  picture  is  per¬ 
haps  a  certain  lack  of  cohesion  and  relation  in  the  en¬ 
semble ;  the  grouping  is  too  much  scattered,  and  leaves 
3 


34 


HISTORICAL  PAINTING. 


too  many  breaks  in  the  composition.  M.  Moreau  de 
Tours  is  very  happy  with  scenes  where  the  grouping  is 
simple  and  the  interest  concentrated  on  a  single  point, 
as,  for  instance,  his  picture — “Trance” — in  the  Salon  of 
1879;  but  he  has  not  yet  gained  full  command  of  his 
methods  in  canvasses  requiring  greater  complexity  of  plan 
and  detail.  He  shows  unmistakably,  however,  that  true 
artistic  temperament  which  always  presses  on  toward  a 
higher  level  of  achievement.  His  picture  this  year  is 
highly  creditable,  and  deserves  both  notice  and  commen¬ 
dation. 

M.  Betsellere,  who  has  recently  died  in  the  very  flower 
of  his  age  and  his  artistic  activity,  leaves  a  last  memorial 
of  his  talent  in  a  “  Dumouriez,”  which  shows  marked  indi¬ 
viduality.  The  general,  whose  faithless  and  wavering  con¬ 
duct  has  brought  him  into  discredit  and  suspicion  with  his 
men,  is  summoned  by  the  volunteers  of  a  battalion  from  the 
Marne  to  obey  the  orders  of  the  Convention,  with  the  inti¬ 
mation  that  they  have  all  sworn,  Brutus-like,  to  stab  him  to 
the  heart  at  any  hesitation  in  fulfilling  his  patriotic  duty.  It 
is  a  striking  bit  of  work,  full  of  lite  and  movement,  and 
breathes  an  afflatus  which  it  is  sad  to  know  has  been  so 
untimely  cut  short. 

M.  Mathey’s  “  Last  Supper  ”  is  fraught  with  all  sorts 
of  good  intentions,  but  puzzles  the  observer  no  little  with  its 
mixture  of  modern  tendency  engrafted  on  mediaeval  relig¬ 
ious  feeling.  The  miracle  of  the  “  Breaking  of  Bread,”  by 
which  Christ  declared  himself  to  his  disciples,  is  represented 
as  occurring  in  an  Alsacian  farm-house.  The  disciples  look 
as  it  they  had  stepped  out  of  one  of  Ribot’s  pictures,  and  in 
the  foreground  a  group  of  children  are  olayinof  around  a 
cradle  evidently  carved  in  the  Black  Forest.  The  picture 
seems  to  have  had  some  hidden  symbolism  in  view,  or  to 


Comte  (P.  C.) — Frauds  I.  R'ui^u!^'*  the  Carps  of  Fontaiticblcau. 


■r 


■f 


I 


\ 

4 


4 


! 


•ft 


i 

•■  f 


.  1 

j  • 

i 

i 


4 

4 

I 


HISTORICAL  PAINTING. 


37 


have  followed  out  some  line  of  individual  thoucrht  which  is 

o 

not  clear  to  the  average  observer.  There  is  a  stimulating 
snap  and  cleverness  in  the  technique,  blended  with  an  eccen¬ 
tricity  in  composition  and  local  color,  which  is  puzzling  to  a 
deofree. 

o 


IMAIGNAN  (A. )  —  The  Last  Moments  of  Chlodobert. 

Besides  his  mural  painting  for  the  city  of  Belfort,  M. 
]\TaiQ"nan  sends  a  “  Death  of  Chlodobert,”  which  would  be 
highly  interesting  but  for  a  slight  vagueness  in  indicating 
the  period  of  history  to  which  it  belongs.  In  the  murderous 
frenzy  which  marked  the  reign  of  Fredegonda — stronger  in 
her  infernal  genius  for  destruction  than  her  equally  cruel  but 
less  energetic  husband,  Chilpcric — the  death  of  Chilperic’s 
last  surviving  son  passed  almost  unheeded.  He  fell  a  vic¬ 
tim  to  the  terrible  plague  which  ravaged  the  kingdom  about 


HISTORICAL  PAINTING. 


38 

580  A.  D.,  whose  symptoms  were  the  breaking-  out  of  boils 
and  ulcers  over  the  whole  body,  burning  fever,  vomiting, 
fierce  pains  in  the  loins,  and  headache.  Chilpcric  himself 
was  attacked  with  it,  but  recovered.  Appalled  at  the  gen¬ 
eral  suffering  around  her,  Fredegonda  felt  some  slight  re¬ 
lapse  of  gentler  humor,  and  bowed  a  moment  before  the 
hand  of  destiny,  which  she  had  so  often  defied.  In  the 
graphic  pages  of  Gregory  of  Tours,  this  female  fiend  is  de¬ 
picted  as  a  sort  of  Northern  sorceress  or  Frankish  Medea, 
as  wicked  as  fair,  her  life  one  long  series  of  witchcraft  and 
poisoning,  steeped  in  sanguinary  superstition,  and  sur¬ 
rounded  by  a  retinue  of  young  assassins  whom  her  fatal 
potions  and  still  more  fatal  beauty  had  enslaved  to  her  will, 
but  for  once  the  royal  helicate  feels  some  touch  of  fear. 
She  has  ordered  her  attendants  to  bear  her  husband’s  son — 
the  last  but  one — to  the  tomb  of  St.  Medard,  and  there,  be¬ 
side  the  couch  of  the  dying  man,  she  bows  her  head  in  grief 
and  terror,  while  Chilpcric  frantically  struggles  as  if  to  push 
apart  the  walls  of  the  vault  and  give  air  to  the  expiring  suf¬ 
ferer.  The  work  is  a  good  illustration  of  M.  Maignan’s 
peculiar  talent,  uneven  and  incomplete,  but  nothing  if  not 
original.  It  may  be  doubted,  however,  whether  the  observ¬ 
ers  of  his  picture  get  any  very  clear  notion  of  the  legend 
it  aims  to  illustrate. 

M.  Cazin  is  a  painter  who  never  fails  to  make  his  mark 
at  each  successive  Salon — fresh,  delicate,  and  refined,  with  a 
brilliancy  like  Memling  or  Van  Eyck,  spite  of  the  delightful 
simplicity  of  his  methods.  We  have  seen,  again  and  again, 
paintings  a  la  circ  by  this  admirable  executant,  which  were 
especially  effective,  and  for  purity  of  drawing  and  excel¬ 
lence  of  technique  might  rival  with  ancient  frescoes.  This 
time,  with  methods  at  every  one’s  disposal,  M.  Cazin  wins 
a  new  triumph  with  a  “Tobias ’’and  an  “  Ishmael,”  both 


THE  SUFFERERS  OF  JUMIEGES 


f 


Lehoux  (P.  a.  P.) — The  Miraculous  DraK^ht  of  I'ishcs. 


1 


% 

s. 


'  'i 


i 


HISTORICAL  PAINTING. 


41 


very  elegant  in  drawing  and  really  exquisite  in  execution. 
The  first-class  medal  which  the  artist  carries  off  this  year 
was  adjudged  him,  it  may  be  stated,  by  an  almost  unani¬ 
mous  vote  of  the  jury. 

M.  Gilbert  paints  in  the  very  extreme  of  the  modern 
style,  and  with  great  force  and  impressiveness.  His  “  Morn¬ 
ing  at  the  Fish-Market  ”  is  a  bit  of  true,  healthy  art,  after 
the  old  masters’  own  heart.  M.  Peley  goes  farther  than 
M.  Gilbert  in  the  same  direction  ;  he  gives  himself  up  more 
entirely  to  the  influence  of  realism,  and  borrows  his  inspir¬ 
ation  from  Zola — the  revolutionist  of  modern  fiction.  In 
outspoken  boldness  of  treatment  he  is  as  frank  and  as  true 
to  nature  as  the  author  of  “  L’Assommoir.”  If,  in  the  one, 
“  Big  Jenny  ”  had  her  poet,  in  the  other  she  has  found  her 
painter. 

And  still  the  series  of  names  crowds  upon  us  for  men¬ 
tion,  clogging  our  pen  and  bewildering  our  imagination,  so 
that  we  are  fain  to  pass  with  mere  enumeration,  “  A  Church 
Nook,”  by  Bonvin  ;  “The  Masked  Ball,”  by  Hermans;  the 
“  Prayer  to  St.  Januarius,”  by  Lematte  ;  “The  Tourney’s 
Prize,”  by  Gues ;  “  Blanche  of  Navarre,”  by  Palmaroli ; 
“  The  Self-Devotion  of  the  Chevalier  d'Assas,”  by  de  Cal- 
lias  ;  “  Louis  XVI.  and  Parmentier,”  by  Delance,  and  along 
line  of  others  too  numerous  to  recount. 

We  cannot  conclude,  however,  without  a  word  touch¬ 
ing  the  “  Henry  of  Guise  before  Henry  III.”  of  M,  Aublet, 
a  restless  artist,  never  satisfied  with  the  line  he  has  last 
adopted,  who  paints,  one  moment,  the  “Garrison  Wash¬ 
room  of  the  Reserves,”  and  the  next  is  off  again  with  a  para¬ 
phrase  of  Pierre  de  I’Estoile,  a  terribly  long  step,  and  un¬ 
fortunately,  backward.  M.  Debat-Ponsan  sends  an  episode 
from  the  Massacre  of  St.  Bartholomew  ;  M.  Paul  Robert 
paints  the  “  Sprites  of  the  Forest,”  coming  forth  from  the 


42 


HISTORICAL  PAINTING. 


tree-trunks  as  they  might  have  done  in  the  realm  of  Armida. 
Two  canvasses,  after  Goya,  are  by  M.  Lira  ;  “  The  Depu¬ 
ties  of  Ghent  at  the  Palace  Gate  of  Charles  the  bold,”  by  M. 
Delperce ;  a  fragment  from  Coppee’s  “Benediction,”  very 
neatly  put  together  by 
M.  J.  Girardet,  and  we 
may  further  notice  the 
contributions  of  M. 

Dawant,  who  copies 


J.  P.  Laurens;  of  II.  Motte,  an 
archaeologist,  mighty  for  rum¬ 
maging  among  ruins  ;  and  of  Du- 
pain,  wdio,  in  style,  adopts  alter¬ 
natively  the  lofty  and  the  horrible, 
and  not  without  good  results. 

.Such,  rapidly  summed  up,  is 
the  balance-sheet  of  Historic  Art 
in  the  Salon  of  1880 — a  balance 
which,  it  must  be  frankly  ad¬ 
mitted,  is  on  the  wrong  side  of 
the  ledger.  Lbidoubtedly  among 
the  artists  enumerated  there  are  some  who  suo-grest  <^ood 
hopes  for  the  future  ;  but  who  can  say  how  far  the  Salon 
of  1881  may  confirm  the  pleasant  anticipations  we  are  war¬ 
ranted  in  basing  on  this  year’s  work  ? 


Aublet  (A.) — Visit  of  Henri  dc  Guise  to  Henry  HI. 


Laurens  (J.  P.  ) — Honoring. 


f 


GlI.liEKT  (j.) — -  v/  L  orncr  of  the  Pish  I\Ia)'kci :  Alofy/i?/^. 


”11 


\ 


Constant  (Benjamin.)  —  The  Last  of  the  Rebels. 


V- 


i 

i 


*1 


< 


HISTORICAL  PAINTING. 


51 


A  main  fault  with  our  artists  is  their  over-versatility — 
a  versatility  which  flows  from  lack  of  firm  conviction  and 
earnest  purpose.  Without  clearly  defined  estimate  of  their 
own  powers  and  best  tendency,  they  glide  into  any  or  all 
lines  of  work  with  equal  readiness — and  equal  mediocrity. 
Wdiere  they  should  study  their  own  bent,  and  take  counsel 
of  their  own  natures,  they  study  the  taste  or  whim  of  the 
time,  with  disastrous  results  to  their  own  efficiency  and  suc¬ 
cess. 

Yet  what  a  lesson  might  be  learned  from  the  men,  so 
recently  in  full  tide  of  life  and  work,  who  labored  through¬ 
out  their  whole  career  with  a  single-hearted  devotion  to  one 
idea  ! — the  strong  all  the  stronger  for  the  patient  application 
under  which  their  genius  ripened  to  full  fruition,  the  weaker 
still  sustained  and  inspired  by  their  fidelity  to  the  single 
faith  that  was  in  them.  If  the  former  were  giants,  the  latter 
may  figure  not  ill  beside  them.  Why  need  we  recall  the 
memory  of  Gericault,  Ingres,  Delacroix,  Scheffer,  Rousseau, 
Millet,  Troyon,  Decamps,  and  the  rest?  All  of  these  men, 
from  the  humblest  to  the  mightiest  and  most  famous,  pur¬ 
sued  one  purpose,  developed  07ie  line,  dreamed  one  dream 
of  art,  worshipped  one  ideal.  If  the  great  ones  won  glory 
and  the  lesser  at  least  honorable  repute,  herein,  and  herein 
alone  must  the  secret  be  sought.  To  live  and  die  in  conse- 
cration  to  one  idea,  is  the  only  ambition  worthy  of  the  true 
artist.  Whoso  works  in  other  fashion  makes  pictnres,  he 
does  not  create. 


) 


M  GUSTAVE  MOREAU  ex- 
•  hibits,  this  year,  two  very 
singular  but  striking  canvasses, 
“  Helen  ”  and  “  Galatea” — not,  per¬ 
haps,  specimens  of  his  very  best 
work,  but  decidedly  the  most  original 
to  be  found  in  this  year’s  salon.  It 
is  no  very  high  praise  to  say  so  ;  for 
in  proportion  as  our  artists  advance, 
year  by  year,  in  mere  manual  dex¬ 
terity,  the  fundamental  conception  of 
their  work  seems  to  grow  more  and 


more  tame  and  commonplace.  Most  of  them  show  just 
enouofh  of  theme  and  intention  to  gfive  excuse  for  a  few 


costumes,  a  bit  of  landscape,  or  a  set  of  furniture  or  acces¬ 
sories.  As  for  any  such  thing  as  clearly  developed  thought, 
historical  or  otherwise,  it  might  be  hard  to  find  among  the 


54 


THE  ANTIQUE. 


three  thousand  exhibitors  more  than  a  score  or  two  who 
seem  to  have  triven  it  a  moment’s  heed. 

M.  Moreau’s  pictures,  on  the  contrary,  never  fail  to 
afford  sueSfestive  matter  for  fruitful  meditation  ;  he  has  the 
especial  merit,  abovn  most  of  his  compeers,  that  he  sets  you 
thinking,  and  his  work  needs  frequent  and  careful  scrutiny 
for  complete  appreciation.  More  than  this,  his  works  stay 
by  you  ;  the  impression  they  leave  is  durable,  and  his 
“  Helen  ”  or  his  “  Galatea,”  once  seen,  is  not  easily  forgot¬ 
ten.  The  recollection  clings  in  the  memory  with  something 
of  the  weird  fascination  of  scenes  or  forms  we  have  seen  in 
dreams.  The  two  figures  which  he  has  called  up  with  the 
subtle  necromancy  of  his  pencil  fasten  on  the  imagination 
like  the  fair  and  dazzling  but  fantastic  visions  of  the  opium 
or  the  hashish  eater. 

His  Helen  is  the  Helen  of  the  Trojan  war — with  all 
the  fatal  beauty  which  sent  so  many  heroes  to  destruction  in 
the  pride  of  their  youth  and  vigor — which  swept  away  whole 
generations  of  “  articulate  speaking  men  ”  in  the  frightful 
hecatombs  of  ancient  warfare — the  same  perennial  type 
which  in  all  lands  and  all  ages  still  stirs  up  the  flame  of 
jealousy  and  hatred — the  same  woman  whose  voice  and 
glance,  to-day  as  thousands  of  years  ago,  has  power  to 
awaken  the  sleeping  savagery,  the  ineradicable  animal  in¬ 
stinct  which  lies  dormant  in  all  human  constitutions. 

The  picture  shows  us  Helen — a  flower  in  her  hand — 
standing  calm  and  u[)right,  in  rigid  impassiveness,  on  a  crum¬ 
bling  fragment  of  Trojan  wall,  the  sunlight  glinting  from  her 
auburn  hair,  ligliting  up  the  azure  of  her  eyes,  and  tinging 
with  a  richer  glow  the  sunset  crimson  of  her  lips.  Draped 
in  the  countless  folds  of  a  gold-embroidered  mantle,  and  her 
head  encircled  with  a  heavy  coronal,  her  straight,  still  figure 
rises  among  the  tufted  mosses  and  weeds  ^vhich  luxuriate 


is'l  .  . 


r 


THE  LORD  GAVE  ANB  THE  LORD  HATH  TAEEH  AWAE 


MuKBAU 


I 


THE  ANTIQUE.  57 

among-  and  over  the  cyclopean  masonry,  like  the  blossom 
which  fitly  crowns  their  rank  verdure. 

In  stern  contrast  with  this  element  of  womanly  beauty 
and  life  is  the  pile  of  corpses  at  her  feet,  the  bodies,  in 
tangled  heap,  of  all  the  youthful  heroes  who  died  in  her 
defence — Paris,  Helenus,  Hipponous,  Troilus — their  tender 
limbs  still  pierced  with  the  darts  of  the  Grecian  archers. 
Their  figures  still  show  the  contour  and  symmetry  of  ear¬ 
liest  youth  ;  their  heads  droop,  with  a  sort  of  bird-like  grace, 
upon  their  shoulders,  and  their  eyes  are  closed  in  a  deep 
repose  w'hich  might  look  like  slumber,  but  for  the  stern,  sad 
shadow  Avhich  the  hand  of  death  has  cast  over  their  boyish 
features.  It  is  a  picture  of  death  as  the  ancient  artists  drew 
it,  softened  and  consoled  with  a  sort  of  smiling  tenderness, 
which  leaves  in  the  heart  of  the  victim  only  one  painful 
trace,  the  mournful  regret  for  the  fair  light  of  da)-  which 
their  eyes  may  no  longer  see.  No  shock  of  terror  or  de¬ 
spair  distorts  their  features,  their  stillness  is  not  the  rigidity 
of  slaughtered  victims,  but  the  fading  fall  of  blossoms  culled 
before  their  prime. 

In  the  background  a  late  sunset  casts  its  dying  gleam 
over  the  wine-colored  waves  of  the  /Ptgean  and  lights  ii[) 
with  dusky  l)lue  the  rocks  of  Tenedos  on  the  horizon,  while 
the  silver  crescent  of  the  moon,  sharp-cut  against  the  twi¬ 
light  sky,  gives  the  key-note  of  the  thought  with  its  emblem 
ot  apotheosis. 

M.  Moreau’s  painting  embodies  and  syml)olizes  the 
ancient  idea  of  the  fatal  power  inherent  in  feminine  charm, 
with  an  admixture  of  more  modern  feeling  which  lends  it  a 
darker  and  more  tragical  hue.  The  Greek  mind,  with  its 
lighter,  more  joyous  tendency,  took  a  more  cheerful  view 
even  of  human  passion  and  error.  All  its  creations,  how¬ 
ever  sad,  cruel,  or  misanthropic  the  subject  matter,  are  set 


5^ 


THE  ANTIQUE. 


off  by  a  bright,  poetic  atmosphere  which  veils  their  more 
sombre  features.  In  their  works  ot  imagination  the  ancients 
took  as  much  pains  to  gloss  over  as  we  to  enhance  the  in¬ 
herent  ugliness  ol  human  nature,  and  delighted  as  earnestly 
in  raising  mortal  existence  above  its  mean  earthly  level  as 
we  in  plodding  through  the  mire  of  baser  commonplace. 
Thus  the  story  of  Helen,  her  hrst  elopement,  her  marriage 
with  Menelatis,  her  escape  with  Paris,  and  the  war  it  led  to 
— the  whole  legend,  fraught  as  it  is  with  crude  and  cynical, 
if  not  revoltins^f  realism,  ifrew  under  their  treatment  to  a 
poem  glowing  with  grace  and  beauty,  the  most  fascinating 
narration  of  all  imaginative  literature.  The  varied  haps  of 
the  royal  vagrant  are  shaped  to  a  wondrous  tale  of  godlike 
or  heroic  adventure,  and  the  beauty  of  the  chief  personage 
has  become  for  all  time  the  symbol  of  feminine  charm  with 
its  resistless  si)ell. 

In  the  picture  under  consideration,  I  lelen  appears  in  sad¬ 
der  licflit  and  with  more  fateful  sicrnihcance.  The  embodied 
personihcation  of  ruin,  it  is  fitting  she  should  be  painted  tri- 
um[)hant  over  heaps  of  slaughtered  \fictims,  cause  and  effect 
blending  in  one  allegorjc  The  philosophic  moral  of  the 
work  is  easily  read — the  old,  old  story  of  woman’s  suprem* 
ac)',  the  everlasting  omnipotence  of  beauty,  before  whose 
sway  the  greatest  and  wisest  are  but  as  helpless  jDuppets, 
mere  scraps  and  remnants  of  their  stronger  selves.  Nor 
need  we  be  limited  here  to  the  mere  consideration  of  special 
loss  or  damage  springing  from  woman’s  faithlessness  or  in¬ 
satiate  desire  and  caprice.  .Such  a  picture  may  teach  us  a 
more  impressive  lesson,  as  the  memory  ranges  over  the  ruin 
of  states  and  empires,  the  never-ending-still-beginning  wars 
and  feuds  which  have  swept  whole  nations  from  the  face  of 
the  earth — the  rending  apart  of  social  and  national  ties — 
all  the  irreparable  disaster,  in  short,  of  which  woman’s  fatal 


Mukci'I'  (A.  N.) — The  Good  Sauiarita?!. 


■  wNK.  ^ 

« 


i 


THE  ANTIQUE. 


6l 


fairness  lias  been  the  germ,  and  which  crowd  the  pages  of 
history  with  only  too  frequent  and  too  ready  illustration. 
Such  is  the  deeper  and  higher  sense  in  which  the  allegory 
of  Helen  should  be  read,  and  such  the  reflections  awakened 
by  this  suggestive  painting,  more  suggestive  perhaps  in  its 
implication  than  in  the  artist’s  conscious  intent. 

In  fitting  correspondence  with  this  somewhat  metaphy¬ 
sical  elevation  of  the  artist’s  thought,  is  the  wonderful  and 
almost  supernatural  brilliancy  of  the  coloring  in  which  he 
has  told  his  story.  His  palette  seems  to  have  been  set  by 
some  fairy  hand,  which  spread  upon  it  the  dazzling  crimson 
of  the  ruby,  the  azure  of  the  sapphire,  and  the  green  of  the 
en'ierald — a  jewelled  mosaic,  which,  to  a  distant  eye,  lends 
the  painting  something  of  the  fantastic  splendor  of  the  un¬ 
real  world  it  sprang  from.  But  the  result  is  not  a  matter  of 
hazard  or  empty  display.  The  artist  is  a  cunning  magician  ; 
and  his  light  and  practised  hand,  while  it  fills  the  canvas 
with  gems,  frames  and  harmonizes  them  with  absolute  taste 
and  dexterity.  If  a  hasty  observer  might  judge  him  a  mere 
enthusiast,  calling  up  in  his  day-dreaming  these  strange 
shapes  of  a  visionary  world,  a  sounder  appreciation  will 
show  him  for  what  he  is,  a  man  of  deep  and  subtle  thought, 
as  well  as  a  thoroughly  trained  colorist,  for  whom  the  ulti¬ 
mate  refinements  of  his  art  have  no  secret  yet  untold. 

M.  Moreau’s  second  subject,  “Galatea,”  is  drawn  from 
the  realm  of  pure  mythology,  and  gives  us  the  sentimental 
episode  of  the  Nymph  of  the  Sea  with  the  giant  Polyphemus. 
The  golden-haired  daughter  of  Nereus,  the  personification 
in  ancient  mythology  of  the  white  and  curling  foam  which 
fringes  the  crest  of  the  breakers,  is  seated  in  her  grotto, 
deep  down  in  the  caves  of  ocean,  dreaming,  no  doubt,  of 
her  shepherd-lover  Acis,  and  heedless  of  the  cyclops  Poly¬ 
phemus,  whose  great  head  is  dimly  seen  in  the  chiaroscuro 


62 


THE  ANTIQUE. 


of  the  background,  gazing  pensively  at  lier  in  an  attitude  of 
the  deepest  admiration.  It  should  be  remarked  that  the 
artist,  deviating  from  the  accejDted  tradition,  gives  his  Cy¬ 
clops  three  eyes  instead  of  one.  Was  it  perhaps  a  subtle 
whim  of  the  painter  to  allow  the  giant  the  conventional 
human  pair  for  daily  and  commonplace  use,  wdille  the  third 
and  superior  luminary  might  be  kept  bent  upon  his  mistress, 
in  entranced  and  single-eyed  devotion  ? 

Around  the  lovers  the  wildest  submarine  flora  spreads 
its  bewildering  and  almost  appalling  luxuriance,  carpeting 
the  ocean-bed  and  draping  the  walls  of  the  grotto  with  pink 
anemones,  and  blood-red  coral,  and  spreading  sea-fans,  and 
starry  astrmas,  while  stray  tendrils  of  fibrous  seaweed  float 
and  twine  about  the  sea-nymph’s  gleaming  figure,  enthroned 
and  bloomings  amidst  all  this  wealth  of  verdureless  vegfeta- 
tion,  the  choicest  of  all  its  blossoms,  the  pale  flower  of  the 
sea. 

The  inner-meaning  of  the  composition,  if  it  has  one, 
escapes  our  scrutiny.  Until  such  shall  appear,  and  it  seems 
hardly  worth  while  to  linger  over  the  quest,  we  are  fain  to 
refer  the  reader  to  Pascal’s  sage  maxims  on  the  obscurity 
of  scriptural  texts,  and  pass  on.  The  real  merit  of  the  can¬ 
vas  is  the  execution,  which  is  masterly  beyond  description, 
none  the  less  so  that  it  is  very  hard  to  say  how  the  artist  gets 
at  his  effects.  Galatea’s  nude  flgure,  for  instance,  while  a 
little  indistinct  in  drawing,  is  amazing  for  its  beauty  of  mod¬ 
elling  and  for  the  mysterious  oddity  of  the  method — whether 
oil-painting,  or  pastel,  or  aquarelle,  or  perhaps,  as  is  more 
likely,  a  mixture  of  all  three.  The  accessories  are  still 
more  striking  and  interesting.  Under  the  artist’s  dainty 
hand  the  color  shines  like  enamel,  each  stroke  of  the  brush, 
every  touch  of  impasto  gleaming  with  the  translucid  bril¬ 
liancy  of  the  precious  stone.  If  to  many  tastes  such  excess 


Lkkoux  (Hector)  I'eitii/. 


>1 


f. 


1 

« 

il 


THE  ANTIQUE. 


65 


of  finish  Is  repugnant,  it  may  at  least  be  said  that  when  car¬ 
ried  to  such  exceptional  perfection  it  indicates  very  high 
executive  skill. 

M.  Moreau,  in  brief,  worthily  maintains  the  exceptional 
position  he  has  taken  among  the  artists  of  the  day,  a  coign 
of  vantaofe  from  which  it  micrht  be  hard  to  dislodije  him 
while  few  of  his  rivals  will  be  likely  to  get  so  far.  It  is  his 
misfortune,  perhaps,  to  possess  in  excess  a  (giality  in  which 
others  are  deficient — a  certain  over-refinement  and  attenu¬ 
ation  of  his  thought,  to  the  vanishing  point  where  it  almost 
disappears. 

It  was  in  the  Qrenius  of  ancient  art  to  brinof  down  all 
creative  ideas  to  the  standard  of  clearness  and  simplicity. 
The  modern  artist  proceeds  on  a  different  plan,  and  works 
up  from  the  concrete  human  fact  to  a  philosophic  general¬ 
ization.  Starting  with  ancient  legend  for  his  material,  he 
reads  into  it  and  reads  out  of  it  a  meanintr  which  never  en- 

o 

tered  the  heads  of  its  creators.  Instead  of  formalizing  old 
truths  under  a  new  shape,  he  takes  up  and  uses  the  old  for¬ 
mulas  for  the  expression  of  utterly  modern  ideas. 

Only  choice  and  exceptional  talents  may  safely  risk 
the  attempt.  Unfortunately  such  efforts  lead  to  little  good 
result :  they  have  not  the  inherent  force  necessary  to  create 
a  new  school.  k)oubtless  the  mind  of  man  needs,  and  alwa)'s 
Avill  need,  types  and  symbols  ;  the  fundamental  ideas  w'hich 
form  its  life  will  always,  for  entire  comprehension  and 
appreciation,  need  to  be  presented  in  visible  and  tangible 
form  ;  they  must,  as  it  were,  clothe  themselves  in  human 
shape.  But  why  this  ever-recurrent  effort  to  galvanize  old- 
time  artistic  embodiments  .which  to  modern  feeling  have 
lost  their  meaning?  Is  the  human  imagination  too  with¬ 
ered  and  powerless  ever  to  originate  new  types  for  the 
thoughts  and  feelings  of  the  present  ? 


66 


THE  ANTIOUE. 


I'he  ancients  found  symbols  for  all  the  powers  of  na¬ 
ture  which  lay  within  their  ken  ;  who  shall  embody  in  new 
symbols  all  the  wondrous  forces  revealed  to  our  later  and 
wiser  time  ? 

There  is  a  fine  thoug-ht  in  the  “  Cain  ”  of  M.  Cormon, 
who  has  taken  his  subject  from  Victor  Hugo’s  “  Legendes 
des  Siecles,”  and  paints  for  us  Cain  fleeing  from  the  stings 
of  conscience.  Ever  since  the  death  of  Abel  he  has  been 
wandering  over  forest  and  plain,  seeking  some  restful 
nook  of  earth’s  surface,  but  linding  none.  Age  has  over- 
taken  him  on  his  endless  journe)-,  but  his  knotty  limbs 


under  the  pelting  of  the  pitiless  storms  have  grown  tough 
as  weather-beaten  oak.  .Small  comfort  to  him  in  a  sap  and 
\  igor  which  threaten  to  drag  out  his  tormented  life  beyond 
all  mortal  limits.  His  lamily  and  servants  share  his  head¬ 
long  flight;  his  wife,  old,  and  gray-hairetl,  and  wild  of  mien 
and  feature,  is  borne  behiml  him  on  a  rough  litter  of  boughs, 
with  her  two  grandchildren  on  her  lap.  One  of  the  sons, 
beside  the  train,  carries  his  j'oung  wife  in  his  arms  ;  for  only 
a  manly  stride  can  keep  pace  with  the  murderer’s  frantic 
career.  Counting  on  no  halts,  the  little  troop  of  retainers 
have  hung  their  provisions  beneath  the  litter,  while  two  of 
them  carry  on  their  shoulders  the  game  they  have  hastil)' 


THE  ANTIQUE. 


67 


killed  on  the  way.  At  the  head  of  the  procession  walks  the 
wretched  patriarch,  with  stretching  stride,  wild  stare  and 
wilder  gesture — on,  on,  ever  onward,  turning  neither  to  left 
nor  riofht,  like  one  who'still  hears  sounding  in  his  ears  the 
Eternal  Voice  bidding  him  give  account  ot  his  brother,  ever 
fleeing  from  the  awful  stare  of  the  remorseless  Eye,  which, 
as  the  poet  tells  us,  glared  upon  him  through  walls  of  brass, 
behind  embattled  ramparts,  and  deep  beneath  the  earth,  in 
the  darkness  of  his  self-appointed  sepulchre. 

The  most  apparent  and  striking  feature  in  M.  Cormon’s 
picture  is  its  movement.  The  personages  all  hurry  on  as  if 
b'ate  were  on  their  track,  with  a  hurried  swing  which  is  par¬ 
ticularly  impressive.  The  general  coloring  of  the  picture 
has  a  sort  of  pallid,  fierce,  and  hungry  tone,  which,  in  the 
human  figures,  becomes  a  livid  clay-color.  If  in  such  abrupt 
realism  M.  Cormon  carries  truth  to  history  a  little  too  far, 
he  has  scientific  warrant  for  the  savage  brutality  he  has 
thrown  into  this  episode  from  the  primitive  life  of  humanity, 
the  Age  of  Stone.  Yet  even  in  his  fidelity  to  nature  we 
detect  a  certain  wavering,  on  the  artist’s  part,  between  .Sci¬ 
ence  and  Biblical  record.  The  picture  is  not  precisely  and 
literally  true  to  either — the  scriptural  legend,  with  its  sub¬ 
lime  and  poetic  depth  of  terror,  nor  the  strictly  historical 
scene,  as  it  might  liave  been,  with  less  of  grandeur  and  im¬ 
portance,  but  illustrating  more  sharply  the  ferocious  primal 
instincts  of  our  kind  in  the  infancy  of  tlie  race,  the  interest¬ 
ing  but  terrible  record  of  man’s  first  crime.  The  compro¬ 
mise  between  these  extremes,  which  the  artist  has  adopted, 
is  not  thoroughly  well  chosen,  as  indeed  compromises  rareh’ 
are. 

Still,  the  attempt  to  do  as  much  as  he  has  done,  is  note¬ 
worthy  and  laudable.  M.  Cormon  is  an  artist  and  a  scholar, 
and  if  his  work  this  year  does  not  entirely  win  our  sympa- 


68 


THE  ANTIQUE. 


thies  it  at  least  claims  the  respect — often  better  than  mere 
success — which  is  clue  to  earnest  and  lorceful  effort. 

M.  Morot’s  “  Good  Samaritan  ”  is  a  fine  bit  of  academic 
study.  The  wounded  traveller,  stripped  of  his  garments,  is 
seated  on  the  beast  of  the  kindly  wayfarer,  who,  himself 
likewise  stripped  to  the  skin,  bears  up  the  sufferer  on  his 
shoulder,  as  they  slowly  wend  their  way  down  the  rocky 
chasm  which  closes  in  the  background  of  the  picture.  The 
two  studies  of  the  nude  are  treated  with  notable  victor  and 
technical  knowledge,  but  show  little  trace  of  the  feeling  which 
the  subject  might  fittingly  inspire.  The  scriptural  text  runs: 
“  A  certain  man  went  down  from  Jerusalem  to  Jericho  and 
fell  among  thieves,  which  stripped  him  of  his  raiment  and 
wounded  him,  and  departed  leaving  him  half  dead.  And  by 
chance  there  came  down  a  certain  priest  that  way,  and  when 
he  saw  him  he  passed  by  on  the  other  side.  And  likewise 
a  Levite,  when  he  was  at  the  place,  came  and  looked  on  him 
and  passed  by  on  the  other  side.  P)Ut  a  certain  Samaritan, 
as  he  journeyed,  came  where  he  was,  and  when  he  saw  him, 
he  had  compassion  on  him,  and  went  to  him  and  bound 
up  his  wounds,  pouring  in  oil  and  wine,  and  set  him  on  his 
own  beast,  and  brought  him  to  an  inn,  and  took  care  of 
him.” 

Such  is  the  theme  the  painter  has  chosen,  and  which 
must  furnish  the  norm  for  our  criticism,  as  it  is  not  to  be 
supposed  for  an  instant  that  M.  Morot,  in  selecting  it,  con¬ 
templated  merely  a  pretext  for  technical  execution  in  the 
clever  and  brilliant  bit  under  discussion.  Of  the  moral  ele¬ 
ment — the  lesson  of  human  charity  so  strikingly  adminis¬ 
tered  by  the  great  Teacher — the  work  unfortunately  shows 
no  sign.  It  does  not  even  very  clearly  indicate  its  own  sub¬ 
ject,  and  almost  any  other  title  for  it  would  do  equally  well. 
In  contrast  with  the  modern  production  we  may  find,  in  the 


Le  Roux  (Hector) — Sc/iool  of  r<-s/,i/s. 


i 


■\  \ 


THE  ANTIQUE. 


71 


“  Good  Samaritan”  of  Rembrandt  in  the  Louvre,  a  delinea¬ 
tion  of  the  same  subject  which  offers  a  model  of  composi¬ 
tion.  Comparison  between  the  two  might  be  out  of  place, 
as  derogatory  to  the  older  master  as  unfair  to  the  younger. 
It  might  have  been  hoped,  however,  that  careful  study  of 
the  classic  masterpiece  would  have  prompted  M.  Morot  to 
a  more  earnest  effort  to  comprehend  and  render  the  real 
feelinof  of  his  theme.  How  could  he  fall  to  feel  the  fine 
atmosphere  of  heavenly  pity,  the  celestial  radiance  shed 
over  the  whole  canvas,  which  in  this,  as  in  all  his  works, 
seems  to  flow  instinctively  from  Rembrandt’s  pencil ;  and 
feeling  it,  how  could  he  fail  to  be  touched  and  instructed  by 
its  lesson  ?  The  good  Samaritan  is  seen  knocking  at  the 
inn-door  while  his  servants  carry  in  the  wounded  man. 
Every  one  and  everything  shows  the  eager  bustle  of  kindly 
emotion.  The  wayfarers  have  clearly  come  at  last  to  hospit¬ 
able  shelter,  where  pitying  hands  shall  bind  up  the  sufferer’s 
wounds  and  dress  them  with  oil  and  wine.  The  individual 
types,  to  be  sure,  are  coarse.  The  oriental  hostelry  takes  on 
the  shape  of  a  common  Dutch  tavern,  ideal  grace  and  local 
color  are  quietly  set  aside,  but  the  feeling  is  all  there,  and 
the  warm  and  luminous  atmosphere  is  pregnant  with  the 
soft  glow  of  helpful  sympathy  ;  faces,  gestures,  everything 
breathes  human  gentleness  and  kindness,  and  everything 
tells  the  real  story  of  the  parable  in  the  plainest  words. 

Apart  from  this  criticism  on  the  lack  of  vigorous  en¬ 
forcement  of  his  meaning,  M.  Morot’s  painting  calls  for  only 
words  of  praise.  As  a  mere  bit  of  painting  it  is  remarkably 
strongf,  and  the  modellin[f  of  the  wounded  fmure  shows  the 
very  perfection  of  scientific  skill.  In  the  technical  methods 
of  his  art  the  painter  has  little  or  nothing  to  learn  ;  it  only 
remains  for  him  to  advance  from  the  mere  vehicle  to  the 
fuller  expression  of  the  thought  to  be  conveyed. 


THE  ANTIQUE. 


M.  Gazin's  “  Islimael  ”  and  “Tobias”  are  two  canvasses 
replete  with  delicate  and  winning  poetic  feeling.  They 
would  hardly  take  the  eye  of  the  superficial  class  who  hun- 
trer  for  loud  colorincj  and  brilliant  effects  ;  their  charm  is 
of  that  quiet,  unobtrusive  character  which  suits  the  scripture 
episodes  they  represent,  and  gives  them  the  calm  beauty 
of  artistic  oases — two  little  bits  of  freshness  and  verdure 
in  the  blank  and  desert  waste  of  idealess  work  about 
them. 

To  cpiote  Scripture  again:  “And  Abraham  rose  up 
early  in  the  morning,  and  took  bread  and  a  bottle  of  water 
and  gave  it  unto  Hagar,  putting  it  on  her  shoulder,  and  the 
child,  and  sent  her  away  :  and  she  departed  and  wandered 
in  the  wilderness  of  Ileer-sheba.  And  the  water  was  spent 
in  the  bottle,  and  she  cast  the  child  under  one  of  the  shrubs. 
And  she  went  and  sat  down  over  against  him  a  good  way 
off ;  for  she  said,  “  Let  me  not  see  the  death  of  the  child. 
And  she  sat  over  against  him,  and  lifted  up  her  voice  and 
wept.” 

M.  Gazin  has  chosen  the  moment  when  Hagar,  her  last 
drop  of  water  exhausted,  and  with  it  her  last  hope  of  life, 
weeps  less  for  herself  than  at  the  fate  which  threatens  her 
son,  while  Ishmael,  too  )’Oung  to  take  in  the  reasons  tor  her 
sorrow,  hangs  upon  her  neck  with  a  childish  and  caressing 
im[)ulse  which  is  very  true  to  nature,  and  as  truthfully  and 
charmingly  rendered.  Sad  as  the  little  group  is,  it  still 
l)reathes  a  very  touching  and  tender  feeling.  The  sur¬ 
rounding  landscape  bears  slight  resemblance  to  the  bound¬ 
less  desert  solitudes  of  the  East,  with  no  living  object  to 
vary  the  monotony  to  the  eye,  no  sound  to  break  the 
deathly  silence  to  the  ear.  It  looks  more  like  a  sandy  tract 
in  the  Landes  or,  it  mierht  be,  in  the  Forest  of  Fontaine- 
bleau,  with  underbrush  and  llowering  broom-plants  and  a 


THE  ANTKJUE. 


73 


wood-crowned  horizon.  Far  Ije  it  from  our  thoug'ht  to  turn 
this  into  matter  of  blame  to  the  artist.  INI.  Gazin  conceives 
his  landscape  after  a  certain  fresh  and  youthtul  fashion  ol  his 
owm,  with  a  naivete  which  seems  to  us  more  essentiall)' 
true  than  the  unsympathetic  bluntness  of  more  realistic 
drawing-. 

From  his  owm  point  of  view'  he  was  perfectly  right  in 
painting  just  as  he  has  done,  and  wdiat  his  picture  loses  in 
literal  correctness  it  gains  in  essential  truth  to  the  ideal. 
To  our  mind,  when  an  artist  takes  up  a  subject  on  which 
mere  archaeolotrical  research  has  no  licj-ht  to  o-ive,  he  should 
surrender  himself  freely  to  the  inspiration  of  the  action  he 
w'ould  paint,  frankly  and  boldly  translating  it  into  his  ow'ii 
language,  and,  giving  his  own  adaptation,  as  it  wmre,  instead 
of  an  anxious  resurrection  of  the  literal  historical  occurrence, 
w'hich  might  perhaps  prove  more  picturesquely  effective,  but 
assuredly  would  speak  less  distinctly  to  the  fancy  and  less 
warmly  to  the  feelings.  Painting  is,  or  should  be,  something- 
more  than  a  mere  back-scene  in  a  spectacle  ;  it  aims  not 
merely  to  tickle  the  eye,  but  to  interpret  facts,  to  take  up  the 
dead,  dry  details  of  history  and  legend,  and  set  them  living 
and  breathing  again  at  the  touch  of  its  magic  pencil.  At  its 
bidding  the  literal  event — in  modern  or  ancient  days — at  home 
or  abroad — takes  on  a  new  embodiment  and  is  translated  into 
a  younger  language.  In  historical  painting  the  occurrence 
to  be  treated  is  shut  in  and  framed,  as  it  wmre,  in  such  nar- 
now  and  precise  limits  of  detail,  that  the  artist's  first  care 
must  be  mechanical  and  literal  accuracy.  In  legendary  art, 
the  thought  is  the  main  thing  to  be  looked  at ;  the  artist  is 
free  to  turn  it  into  his  own  language,  and  the  phrase  wdiich 
most  fitly  does  this  is  the  best  for  his  purpose.  Rembrandt 
did  not  greatly  err  from  essential  truth  in  the  modern  treat¬ 
ment  he  gives  his  scriptural  subjects.  In  representing  his 


THE  ANTIQUE. 


74 

characters  uith  the  costumes,  movements,  and — one  is  al¬ 
most  tempted  to  say,  the  language — of  his  own  day,  he  has 
made  his  meaning  clearer  than  he  could  have  done  by  set¬ 
ting  them  back  in  the  times  when  they  really  lived,  times 
which  lose  their  interest  for  us  precisely  as  they  recede  from 
our  view  in  the  dim  perspective  of  the  past.  For  a  conclusive 
instance  of  this  principle  take  Bida’s  Bible.  In  the  illustra¬ 
tions  every  detail  is  literally  true  to  fact,  the  fruit  of  study 
on  the  spot.  As  we  think  ot  the  eternal  calm  which  our 
imagination  is  apt  to  associate  with  the  Orient,  it  is  easy  to 
fancy  the  event  occurring  exactly  as  the  artist  has  shown  it. 
Yet,  in  looking  at  his  pictures,  while  we  are  struck  with  ad¬ 
miration  for  his  talent,  and  our  curiosity  stimulated  with  the 
delineation  of  unfamiliar  lands,  or  life,  or  customs,  we  feel 
little  or  none  of  the  })eculiar  emotional  stir  which  the  subject 
is  inherently  fitted  to  arouse.  While  they  interest  us,  they 
leave  us  cold  as  ice.  In  the  final  analysis,  M.  Cazin’s 
Ishmael  might  give  occasion  tor  much  sharp  comment  on  its 
shortcomings  in  drawing,  and  still  more  in  coloring,  but 
these  detects  may  be  easily  overlooked  in  view  of  its  more 
strikinor  merits.  We  feel  in  no  haste  to  draw  the  artist’s 

o 

attention  to  imperfections  which  he,  after  all,  is  probably 
more  keenly  aware  of  than  any  one  else. 

The  second  canvas,  “  d'obias,’’  is  not  less  poetic  and 
graceful  than  its  pendant.  The  elder  Tobias,  blind,  and,  as 
he  fancies,  drawing  near  his  end,  summons  his  son  Tobias 
and  says  :  “  Go  presently  and  find  out  some  trustworthy  man 
to  go  with  thee,  and  pay  him  for  his  trouble,  that  thou 
mayst  receive  this  money  during  my  lifetime.  And  Tobias 
went  and  found  a  young  man  of  fair  stature,  with  his  loins 
girded  as  for  a  journey.” 

Into  this  meeting  of  Tobias  and  the  angel  the  artist  has 
thrown  very  little  of  anything  like  specifically  scriptural  or 


THE  ANTIQUE. 


75 


even  Oriental  character.  He  has  placed  his  figures  in  a  fresh 
and  smiling  landscape,  where  Tobias  meets  the  heavenly  mes¬ 
senger  in  a  grass-grown  footpath,  beside  a  still  pond,  while 
on  the  slope  of  a  distant  hill  a  pretty  country  house,  with 
roof  of  tiles,  gleams  in  the  cheerful  sunlight.  The  whole 
scene  presents  the  familiar  features  of  a  bit  of  our  own  brench 
landscape,  and  the  youthful  Tobias,  instead  of  the  Jewish 
youth  of  tradition,  just  entering  on  the  boundary  of  an  East¬ 
ern  desert,  becomes  a  modern  peasant  lad  preparing  to  quit 
his  paternal  roof-tree,  with  bundle  on  shoulder.  Unskilled 
in  the  world  and  its  ways,  he  is  starting  from  home,  as  if  for 
an  easy  walk  to  the  next  village,  in  his  every-day  clothes, 
with  his  hat  cocked  saucily  over  his  ear.  “  Wdiere  is  he 
going?”  the  spectator  naturally  queries.  The  answer  comes 
naturally,  “To  town,  of  course — a  long,  long  way  off,  to 
collect  a  little  money  owing  his  father,  and,  no  doubt,  at  the 
same  time  to  find  employment.  No  doubt,  too,  he  will  meet 
in  his  wayfaring  some  poor  but  honest  girl  of  his  own  class, 
and  marry  her,  as  young  Tobias  did  Rachel.  Then,  with  a 
little  money  laid  up,  they  will  come  back  to  their  native 
village,  their  family  and  friends,  the  cottage  with  the  red- 
tiled  roof,  the  sleepy  little  pond,  and  all  the  peaceful  sur¬ 
roundings  of  their  childhood.” 

To  the  rustic  mind,  this  first  sallying  forth  from  home  is 
a  fateful  and  eventful  expedition,  and  the  old  mother  is  dis¬ 
solved  in  tears  at  thoimht  of  all  the  dangers  which  must 
beset  her  son.  Too  many,  alas  !  like  him,  have  quit  their  fire¬ 
side  only  to  perish  on  the  way,  or  else  to  forget,  in  the 
pleasure  or  prosperity  of  their  new  life,  the  poor  old  parents, 
unweariedly  uncomplaining,  waiting  for  the  child  who  shall 
never  come  back  to  them.  Thank  Heaven  for  the  others 
who,  strong  in  moral  purpose  and  sound  early  training, 
sacredly  guarding  in  their  hearts  the  love  of  parents  and 


THE  ANTIQUE. 


76 

home,  go  forth  onl)'  to  return — the  favored  wayfarers  for 
whom  Raphael  stands  waiting  at  the  threshold  to  lead  them 
through  the  snares  and  temptations  of  life,  back  to  their 
peaceful  hreside  at  last,  richer  in  the  things  of  the  flesh, 
and  in  those  of  the  Spirit  not  poorer,  than  when  they 
went. 

GASTON  SCHEFER. 


tic  drama, 
two 


AS  far  l)ack  as  the  last 
centur)-,  Diderot, 
who  lived  in  the  same  da}' 
with  Greuze  and  Chardin, 
called  attention  to  the  e\'en 
then  growinii;  development 
of  gcmc  painting-,  and  the 
equally  noticeable  fallings  off 
in  Historic  Art — “the  eter¬ 
nal  rivalry,”  as  he  called  it, 
“  between  prose  and  [poe¬ 
try  ”  —  only  another  form 
of  the  old  antagonism  be¬ 
tween  traged}'  and  domes- 


And  the  great  critic,  sitting  in  judgment  on  the 
contending  parties,  gave  as  his  decision  that,  whereas, 


78 


GENRE. 


historical  painting  calls  for  a  higher  range  of  thought,  more 
imagination,  and  a  finer  poetry,  genre  painting  emphatically 
requires  truth  of  treatment.  It  was  to  be  expected  that  our 
own  period,  with  a  passion  for  truth  in  delineation  which  runs 
to  the  verge  of  realism,  should  give  birth  to  a  school  of  gen¬ 
re  painters  strong  in  numbers,  at  least,  if  not  in  talent  and 
Influence.  Old  classifications  in  the  matter  of  artistic  produc¬ 
tion  have  been  swept  away,  and,  whereas  Diderot  admitted 
but  two  categories,  history  and  genre,  the  modern  art  school 
shows  a  dozen  or  more.  History,  to  be  sure,  remains  in¬ 
tegral  in  its  comparative  solitude  and  neglect,  but  genre  has 
branched  off  into  endless  subdivision.  Landscape  has  gone 
on  its  own  way  as  a  distinct  school,  and  not  the  least  credit¬ 
able  of  the  brotherhood.  Portrait  painters,  military  painters, 
marine  painters,  animal  painters,  flower  painters,  still-life 
painters,  have  all  grouped  themselves  into  as  many  separate 
artistic  families,  and  all  have  been  favored  with  a  share  of 
hortune’s  smiles.  Spite  of  this  minute  subdivision  of  labor, 
genre  painting  has  not  yet  begun  to  exhaust  the  vast  field 
which  lies  within  its  scope.  Its  domain  is  as  widens  modern 
existence,  with  all  its  complex  and  endless  variety  of  action 
and  interest ;  its  function  is  to  draw  for  us  the  life  of  the  house 
and  family,  to  record  our  daily  habits,  to  set  before  us  scenes 
in  street  or  plain,  to  give  reality  to  customs,  traditions,  festi¬ 
vals,  ceremonies — to  be,  in  visible  fashion,  the  chronicle  and 
brief  abstract  of  the  time.  It  has  a  right,  too,  to  go  back  to 
other  days,  and  illustrate  the  love-making,  duelling,  supping 
and  serenading  of  former  centuries  ;  to  give  bodily  shape  to 
legendary  types  of  prince  or  plebeian  in  generations  long 
gone  ;  to  show  us,  dusky  in  the  torchlight,  or  glittering  in 
the  radiance  of  candelabra  and  flambeaux,  the  sullen  pic¬ 
turesqueness  of  Louis  XIII.  men-at-arms,  or  the  foppish 
elegance  of  dainty  cavalier  and  high-born  lady.  Genre 


'  ■ — — 


Vely  (A  ) — Pint  Love. 


GENRE. 


8 1 


painting  takes  its  themes  at  its  own  sweet  will — on  a  Paris 
quay,  or  under  a  pretty  girl’s  window  in  Seville  or  Madrid. 
It  makes  its  way  through  the  most  distant  lands  and  the 
most  varied  surroundings  with  an  almost  boundless  horizon 
of  selection  and  efficiency. 

Wath  the  vast  e.xtent  of  the  field  and  the  countless  throng 
of  harvesters,  why  should  the  harvest  be  so  scanty  and  the 
sheaves  so  light  ?  Why  should  genre  painting,  like  the 
mountain  of  the  fable,  bring  forth  year  by  )'ear  only  its  one 
poor  mouselet  of  achievement  ? 

The  reason  is  not  far  to  seek.  First,  while  the  number 
of  e.xhibitors  has  grown  beyond  all  measure,  the  percent¬ 
age  of  real  artists  in  the  lot  has  remained  extremely  limited. 
.Second,  of  all  the  men  who  have  attempted  this  line,  four- 
fifths  seem  actuated  by  an  irresistible  repulsion  for  nature 
and  the  most  absolute  scorn  for  their  model.  P'orgetting 
Diderot’s  fundamental  principle  that  genre  requires  truth  to 
reality,  they  set  up,  amid  imaginary  and  impossible  surround¬ 
ings,  a  lot  of  equally  imaginary  stuffed  figures  of  rags  and 
pasteboard,  which  are  usually  as  weak  and  eccentric  in 
drawing  as  they  are  wretched  in  technique. 

There  are  still  a  few,  undoubtedly,  who  do  their  best 
to  copy  nature,  according  to  their  lights.  But,  great  heav¬ 
ens,  with  what  eyes  !  An  artist  may  lack  eye  as  a  musician 
lacks  ear ;  and  there  are  eyes  which  stupidly  copy  at  hap¬ 
hazard  just  what  comes  within  their  ken,  the  good,  the  bad, 
or  the  detestable,  alike.  In  their  hunt  after  truth  they  for¬ 
get  the  claims  of  art,  whereas  nothing  but  the  blending  of 
the  two  can  produce  really  good  work.  If  I  needed  an 
illustration  for  my  phrase — the  blending  of  art  and  truth — 
I  might  cite,  for  e.xample,  such  a  work  as  the  portrait  of 
Ulysse  Bertin,  by  Ernest  Duez  ;  one  of  the  few  canvasses  in 
the  Salon  which,  with  simplicity  and  judicious  choice  of 


82 


GENRE. 


subject,  unites  conscientious  observation  of  nature,  beauty 
of  style,  and  perfection  of  technical  execution. 

So  much  for  general  preliminary  reflections,  and  now 
for  a  review  of  the  pictures  in  detail.  Such  a  review  must 
of  necessity  be  a  trifle  summary  ;  if  the  critic  lingered  to 
take  cognizance  of  all  the  works  which  are  faulty  and  unsat¬ 
isfactory  in  general  effect,  though  relieved  by  fragmentary 
traits  of  good  drawing,  or  coloring,  or  laudable  tendency,  he 
might  fill  a  volume.  The  .Salon  of  1880  is  replete  with  what 
I  might  call  artistic  small  change,  but  displays  a  lamentable 
dearth  of  sterling  coin.  For  the  enumeration  of  all  the 
works  which  show  pure  metal,  two  or  three  pages  would  do 
well  enough.  In  the  wish,  however,  to  avoid  narrowness 
or  prejudice,  I  will  try  to  swell  the  list  by  mentioning  along 
with  the  really  first-rate  works  such  as  seem  to  me  among 
the  only  moderately  bad. 

To  begin  with  the  former  class,  M.  Dagnan-Bouveret’s 
picture,  “An  Accident,”  seems  to  me  one  of  the  absolutely 
satisfactory  kind.  The  painter,  the  same  one  who  has  given 
us  “  Manon  Lescaut,”  here  sketches  a  little  family  incicient 
in  the  humble  surroundings  of  a  rustic  dwelling.  One  of 
the  children,  playing  with  a  pruning-knife,  has  gi\'en  him¬ 
self  an  ugly  cut  in  the  wrist.  The  poor  little  lad,  pale  and 
scared,  sits  on  a  bench  beside  a  blood-stained  basin,  hold¬ 
ing  out  his  arm  to  the  doctor,  who  has  been  hurriedly  sum¬ 
moned.  The  whole  family,  farm-hands  and  all,  cluster 
around  to  watch  the  operation  of  bandaging  the  wound, 
and  the  graded  scale  of  their  regard  for  the  unlucky  urchin 
may  be  read  in  a  glance  at  their  faces.  The  father  stands 
hanging  his  head,  restless,  but  angry  and  indignant  at  his  own 
helplessness  to  aid  or  comfort,  while  the  sister  sits  sobbing 
in  a  corner  between  the  blue-canopied  bedstead  and  the  old 
family  clock.  The  mother,  too  uneasy  to  keep  still,  is  on 


\’iin,I,l',MOT  (C’  )  —  A\-7',  ric\ 


GENRE. 


S5 

foot  like  her  husband,  anxiously  keeping-  her  e-ye  on  her  lit¬ 
tle  favorite  while  she  gets  ready  the  handkerchief  to  serve 
as  a  sling  for  the  wounded  arm.  Seated  around  upon  the 
benches,  with  their  elbows  on  the  table,  the  farm-hands  are 
earnestly  watching  the  young  doctor,  as  he  deftly  rolls  and 
fastens  his  linen  bandages,  with  some  pity  in  their  stolid 
features,  but  more  curiosity. 

A  very  effective  trait  is  the  pallid  and  set  face  of  the 
boy,  in  high  light  and  sharp  relief  against  the  dark  back¬ 
ground  of  the  old  country  chimney-piece. 

The  subject  is  excellently  chosen,  and  the  execution 
thoroughly  .satisfactory  and  quite  worthy  of  the  theme.  The 
drawing  is  correct  throughout,  and  figures  and  accessories 
broadly  and  vigorously  handled,  with  a  good,  rich,  juicy  ivi- 
pasto.  The  picture,  in  short,  has  such  varied  and  rounded 
merits  that  it  may  well  catch  the  eye  and  fasten  the  atten¬ 
tion  of  the  passing  visitor  as  well  as  the  more  technical 
critic,  for  M.  Dagnan-Bouveret  has  spent  on  it  a  prodigious 
amount  of  ability.  He  was  known  already  for  the  remark¬ 
able  talent,  the  close  observation,  skilful  composition,  and 
really  exceptional  execution  of  his  previous  works,  and  his 
contribution  for  this  year  assures  him  a  i)Osition  among  our 
best  painters. 

M.  A.  Roll,  who  last  year  exhibited  a  “  Silenus,”  verj- 
noteworthy  for  its  broad  and  vigorous  treatment  of  the  flesh 
tones,  has  chosen  his  subject  this  year  from  every-day  life, 
and  sets  before  us  the  dread  drama  of  the  working-classes 
— the  “  Strike.”  The  strike,  as  we  have  had  too  much  rea¬ 
son  to  know,  may  easily  turn  to  actual  warfare,  and  warfare 
of  the  saddest  kind — the  war  for  bread  ! 

And  this  is  the  idea  which  M.  Roll’s  picture  strongly 
emphasizes.  In  a  dreary  landscape,  evidently  in  the  “  Black 
Country”  of  the  coal  regions,  is  seen  a  crowd  of  miners 


86 


GENRE. 


kept  in  restraint  by  a  squad  of  gendarmes.  The  beaten 
part)-,  for  no  word  better  hts  the  appearance  of  the  strikers, 
make  up  a  very  dramatic  cluster  of  faces  darkened  alike 
with  passion  and  the  sooty  dust  of  their  daily  labor.  One 
workman  is  seated  in  the  foreground,  gnawing  his  clenched 
fist  for  rage,  while  the  other  arm  hangs  in  the  helplessness 
of  despair  at  his  side.  Behind  him,  half-hidden  by  the  stout 


Roll  (A. -I'.). —  The  Mineys'  Strike. 


quarters  ot  a  gendarme’s  horse,  is  seen  a  woman  nursing  her 
infant.  One  furious  malcontent  at  the  left  stands  with  raised 
arm  in  act  to  hurl  a  bit  of  stone  or  coal  at  the  troops,  while 
his  wife  clings  to  him  to  hinder  an  action  which  would  con¬ 
vert  the  striker’s  legal  and  justifiable  inactivity  into  an  overt 
act  of  criminal  violence.  The  general  carbon  hue  of  every¬ 
thing  in  scene  and  accessories,  the  miners’  blouses,  stained 


r 


CONVENT  SCENE  IN  VENICE 


Dhl-OBBE  (F.  A.) — The  Bath. 


,v 


Mouginot  (C.)— Gal/ant  Masker 


« 


i 

I 


f 


Lobriciion  (T.) — The  Tortures  of  Tantalus. 


GENRE. 


93 


with  the  traces  of  the  coal-working,  and  their  faces  lowering 
and  dark  with  passion,  all  go  to  make  up  a  total  which,  from 
the  colorist’s  point  of  view,  is  unpleasantly  dull  and  monot¬ 
onous,  but  terribly  expressive  in  its  rendering  of  the  grim 
drama  of  the  laboring  poor.  M.  Roll  deserves  credit  for 
his  boldness  in  attacking  a  subject  superficially  so  little  in¬ 
viting,  as  well  as  for  the  vigor  and  truth  of  his  handling. 

The  great  Hungarian,  Munkacsy,  one  of  the  masters  in 
modern  genre  painting,  is  unrepresented  in  the  Salon  of  this 
year.  He  is  hardly  to  be  blamed  for  keeping  out  of  the 
melee,  and  there  are  plenty  of  the  best  workmen  to  keep  him 
company  in  shunning  any  share  in  an  institution  which  be¬ 
gins  to  give  sign  of  having  outlived  its  usefulness. 

To  those  who  admire  the  Hungarian  master,  with  his 
firm,  vigorous  touch,  and  his  large  and  broad  treatment  of 
small  things,  may  be  commended  M.  F.  C.  Uhde’s  picture 
of  “  The  Singer.”  The  scene  may  be  imagined  as  in  some 
out-of-the-way  nook  of  Spanish  Flanders  or  Brabant.  The 
room  in  which  he  has  grouped  his  characters  can  belong 
only  to  one  of  those  quaint  old  houses  with  roof-tree  and 
gables  carved  into  steps,  which  give  such  a  picturesque  mid¬ 
dle  -age  flavor  to  the  quay  of  the  Marche-aux-Herbes  in 
Ghent.  Ever  smce  the  sojourn  of  the  Spanish  conquerors 
the  land  has  kept,  as  it  were,  a  borrowed  gleam  of  southern 
sunlight,  which  lingers  everywhere  and  in  everything — in 
the  great  black  eyes  of  every  girl  who  passes  in  the  street, 
in  each  petty  detail  of  building  or  furniture,  in  every  trait 
of  local  manner  or  habit.  So  M.  Uhde’s  “  Singer,”  in  de¬ 
fault  of  stage,  has  climbed  upon  a  table,  as  her  southern 
sister,  the  Madrilena,  would  undoubtedly  have  done.  With 
her  heavy  and  fleshly  coarseness  of  contour  she  is  anything 
but  fascinating,  but  she  should  be  clever  and  witty,  to  judge 
from  the  evident  and  uproarious  delight  of  her  auditors. 


94 


GENRE. 


The  fellow  scraping  the  fiddle  at  the  right  of  the  picture, 
apparently  her  regular  accompanist,  is  smiling,  for  the  hun¬ 
dredth  time,  no  doubt,  at  the  spic}^  impropriety  of  the  re¬ 
frain.  To  revive,  so  far  as  Jiiay  be,  the  freshness  of  a  de- 
light  grown  somewhat  stale  with  repetition,  by  the  stimulus 
of  a  sympathetic  feeling  with  his  hearers,  he  turns  toward 
the  audience  his  hang-dog  stroller’s  face,  its  ugliness  aptly 
set  off  by  the  black  ribbon  drawn  over  an  equally  black  eye, 
fit  type  of  mourning  for  the  last  ro.w  he  has  gone  through 
in  the  last  noisome  den  they  visited. 

All  the  bystanders  are  laughing  more  or  less  noisily, 
according  to  their  differing  individuality.  A  gray-coated 
man-at-arms,  in  the  front  row,  roars  explosively.  His  neigh¬ 
bor,  of  more  excitable  temperament,  besides  grinning  from 
ear  to  ear,  brandishes  his  drinking-glass  in  visible  token  of 
admiration.  A  smoker,  from  jaws  wide  open  in  merriment, 
lets  out  a  guffaw  and  a  cloud  of  gray  smoke  at  one  breath, 
while  a  deaf  man,  behind  him,  puts  his  hand  to  his  ear, 
speaking-trumpet  fashion,  to  catch  all  he  can  of  the  song. 
All  the  figures  repay  examination,  and  the  spectator  could 
pass  hours  before  this  interesting  canvas,  fraught  as  it  is 
with  the  most  minute  and  careful  observation,  and  executed 
with  such  richness  of  material  and  method.  In  saying  that 
M.  Uhde’s  picture  reminds  us  of  Michel  Munkacsy’s  peculiar 
manner,  I  have  given  it  the  highest  praise  in  my  power. 

While  M.  Uhde  has  drawn  his  inspiration  from  the  Low 
Countries — the  birthplace  oi gcin-c  painting — our  own  city  of 
Paris  has  supplied,  this  year,  a  wealth  of  interesting  themes 
to  the  artists  who  aim  to  be  the  faithful  chroniclers  of  their 
time.  And,  after  all,  what  more  fruitful  and  varied  field  of 
observation  than  a  city  street,  with  its  infinite  diversity  of 
aspect,  and  character,  and  action  ?  And  when  once  an  artist 
has  made  up  his  mind  to  (luit  the  seclusion  of  his  studio  and 


JiMKNEZ  (L.) — The  Ante-Chamber  of  a  Minister. 


■m-  . 


.u: 


•4  \  L 


IT  *  -I. 


..  :•*.. 


LefEBVRE  {G.)—A  Deplorable  Fall. 


GENRE. 


lOI 


come  out  into  broad  daylight  for  his  subjects,  how  very  wide 
awake  and  alert  he  should  keep  himself,  if  he  would  grasp  all 
the  shifting  shades  of  the  marvellous  panorama  ! 

M.  Guillemet  is  one  of  the  men  who  have  eyes  out  of 
doors.  As  he  loitered  alontr  the  banks  of  the  Seine,  he  was 
struck  with  the  picturesqueness  of  the  old  Ouai  de  P)ercy,  and 
set  bravely  to  work  to  paint  it.  In  his  picture,  the  foreground 
is  taken  up  by  the  left  bank  of  the  river,  with  its  old  shanties 
and  clumps  of  trees.  From  bank  to  bank  spreads  the  gleam¬ 
ing  surface  of  the  Seine,  broken  only  here  and  there  by 
scows  and  steamers,  while  the  right  bank  stands  out  be)'ond 
in  more  level  contour  and  more  delicate  lines.  A  prominent 
and  delightful  feature  in  the  work  of  this  very  admirable  ar¬ 
tist,  is  his  simplicity  of  method,  or,  more  strictly,  his  method 
of  simplifying  and  subordinating  every  detail  to  the  general 
harmony  of  his  picture.  I  spoke,  not  long'  ago,  of  artists  who 
had  no  eye.  M.  Guillemet’s  eye  is  very  true  indeed.  He 
not  only  has  a  delicate  perception  of  tones  and  values,  but 
he  has  furthermore  the  faculty  of  generalizing,  and  taking  in 
the  whole  scene  he  tries  to  paint,  in  one  sweeping  and  com¬ 
prehensive  view. 

Leaving  this  painter,  Avith  his  strength  in  generalization, 
we  next  pass  to  one  equally  strong  in  treatment  of  detail  -- 
I\I.  Jean  beraud.  His  “  Public  Ball,”  though  studied  from 
nature — no  mean  merit — at  first  glance  creates  rather  aston¬ 
ishment  than  pleasure.  The  eye  needs  time  to  get  used  to 
the  strong  realism  of  the  trees,  with  their  tops  fading-  off 
into  the  dark  blue  of  the  night-sky,  and  their  under  branches 
blazing  with  the  coarse  glare  of  the  gaslights.  The  sharp 
contrast  between  the  cool  darkness  of  the  night-air  and  the 
flare  of  artificial  illumination  is  painful,  but  no  fault  of  the 
artist — rather  of  the  reckless  impudence  with  which  the 
managers  of  open-air  balls  and  concerts  set  to  work  to  so- 


102 


GENRE . 


phisticate  and  deform  nature.  Trees  were  clearly  not  created 
to  be  lit  from  beneath  with  gas,  petroleum,  or  electricity  ; 
witness  the  fact  that  under  this  destructive  treatment  they 
generally  wither  and  perish. 

I  however  this  may  be,  hi.  Reraud’s  picture  is  carefully 
studied,  and  very  spirited  in  composition.  The  painter  has 
made  a  very  close  examination  ot  the  sort  of  people  who 
haunt  these  resorts;  he  has  set  out  to  give  us,  so  to  speak, 
the  synthesis  of  the  dance-cellar,  and  has  done  it  well.  In 
the  motley  crowd  whirling  and  jigging  to  the  strains  of  the 
band,  all  the  main  types  and  well-known  features  of  the  old 
frequenters  crop  out — the  “kept  woman,”  very  handsomely 
kept,  and  far  too  handsomely  dressed  ;  the  girl  who  is  on 
the  lookout  for  a  customer,  beside  the  other  one,  who  takes 
her  Aveary  way  of  life  gaily,  and  is  having  the  wildest  of 
“  good  times  ;  ”  the  poor  shop-girl  just  entering  on  her  sad 
career,  out  of  work  and  out  of  bounds  for  the  nonce,  her 
lean  figure  sharply  defined  by  her  plain  black  dress,  with  the 
one  little  knot  of  colored  ribbon  in  her  hair.  M.  Reraud  has 
left  out  but  one  feature  that  I  can  think  of.  Mis  menagerie 
of  haiqnes,  to  be  complete,  should  include  the  prosperous 
hag,  stout  and  well-fed,  who  has  made  her  market,  and  comes 
back  to  old  scenes  from  vicious  habit  and  love  of  excitement. 

I  take  great  pleasure  in  hi.  Gilbert’s  “Nook  in  the  Fish 
Market.”  In  the  gray  dawn  of  early  morning,  the  gloomy 
half-light  of  a  dull  day  in  Paris  comes  sifting  through  the 
window-frames  and  skylights  of  the  market-house.  Thoimh 
it  is  hardly  day,  and  the  gas-jets  are  not  yet  out,  the  whole 
thrimg  of  market  people  are  up  and  busy.  The  tidal  train 
has  just  brought  in  the  most  tempting  selection  of  still-life 
subjects — (jf  the  finny  order — some  splendid  specimens  of 
which  are  set  out  in  baskets  in  the  foreground,  while  two 
men  have  gone  to  work  to  clean  them.  One  of  them,  kneel- 


J^rint  ptWi^l  J'f  K^orot . 


T’/u>tot/ravNrt  O-oupUi^i. 


THE  GOOD  SAMARITAN. 


SAMUEL  L  HALL 
HEWYOBK 


(5a 

-i 


X. 


5:1 


I 

-.H 


f 


w 


'  ^  i 

1 


■ils 


f 


] 


M-  i 


GENRE. 


109 


ing,  catches  a  big  conger-eel  by  the  head,  while  the  other 
stops  a  moment  to  light  his  pipe  for  a  smoke — the  comfort¬ 
ing  first  smoke  of  the  morning.  A  woman  is  passing  behind 
them  with  a  tray-load  of  smaller  fish,  and  beyond  appears 
the  outlined  figure  of  a  market  porter,  bending  under  his 
heavy  burden.  In  the  background,  behind  the  railings,  is 
seen  the  busy  crowd  of  market-folk,  setting  out  their  stalls 
and  getting  ready  to  serve-up  its  daily  provision  to  that 
modern  Gargantua — the  Parisian  stomach.  The  whole  bit 
is  genuine  and  good,  and  much  to  M.  Gilbert’s  credit. 

Quitting  the  fish  department,  let  us  step  out  into  the 
field  for  a  breath  of  fresh  air. 

Rural  nature  has  had  very  brilliant  treatment  this  year. 
The  best  picture  in  the  .Salon,  M.  Breton’s  “Evening,”  is  a 
country  scene,  and  ]\I.  Leroll’s  “  Shepherdess,”  which  I 
should  like  to  praise  at  greater  length,  is  a  work  of  the 
same  class.  In  both  these  excellent  canvasses,  the  feeling 
of  the  scene  and  surroundings  seems  to  so  completely  pre¬ 
dominate  over  and  harmonize  the  personages  of  the  com¬ 
position,  that  it  might  be  more  fitting  to  class  them  among  the 
landscapes — with  figures — than  in  the  de[)artment  of  gr;/;r. 

I  have  still  M.  Hugo  Salmson’s  “  Batteurs  d’  (Eillette  ” 
for  my  consolation,  and  no  small  comfort,  too. 

After  taking  a  prize  at  the  Stockholm  Academy,  some 
years  ago,  M.  Salmson  came  to  Paris  to  finish  his  artistic 
education,  or,  rather,  to  begin  it  all  over  again.  The  result 
shows  that  he  has  made  good  use  of  his  time,  and  very  judi¬ 
ciously  forgotten  all  he  had  learned  before.  For  some  time 
he  lelt  his  way  along,  exhibiting  Dalecarlian  peasants  in  pic¬ 
turesque  red  costumes,  and  painted,  especially,  a  conserva¬ 
tory  interior  which  attracted  a  good  deal  of  attention,  but  at 
last  found  how  to  put  his  talents  to  the  best  use,  by  painting 
rural  scenes.  Some  of  his  earlier  pictures  will  be  easily 


1  10 


GENRE. 


remembered,  such  as  his  “  Arrest  in  a  Picardy  Village  ” — a 
bit  of  drama  from  the  life  oi  the  peasant,  very  truthlully  given, 
d'his  year  IM.  Hugo  Salmson  exhibits  the  “  Po[)py  Gather¬ 
ers.”  The  landscape  in  which  he  has  set  the  hgures  of  his 
laborers  is  treated  discreetly  and  simply.  The  figures  them¬ 
selves,  for  accuracy  and  truth  of  delineation,  remind  us  of 
Millet,  and  the  whole  makes  a  good  picture. 

Among  the  painters  who  know,  as  we  said  above,  how 
to  use  their  eyes,  M.  Feyen-Perrin  is  certainly  one  of  the 
most  talented — a  very  graceful  and  poetic  artist,  who  seems 
to  wander  in  some  enchanted  land  of  reverie  and  marvel, 
some  pleasing  mythologic  world,  which  holds  his  imagination 
spellbound  with  its  charm,  and  gives  to  all  his  compositions, 
with  all  their  modern  and  realistic  character,  a  vague  sug¬ 
gestion  of  the  purest  antique  types. 

In  his  “  Return  from  Fishing — Low  Tide,”  I  am  espe¬ 
cially  taken  with  the  figures  of  the  two  young  girls  in  the 
foreground,  as  they  march  ahead  of  the  main  body  of  fisher- 
tolk,  with  the  l)old,  Iree  swing  and  graceful  \  igor  peculiar  to 
the  seafaring  race,  between  them  they  carry  by  the  handles 
a  heavy  creel,  and  the  foremost  and  prettier  girl  holds,  be¬ 
side,  a  basket  on  her  lelt  arm,  resting  against  her  hip.  The 
gesture,  attitiule,  and  poise  of  the  head  are  all  fine — a  per¬ 
fect  harmoin’  of  line  and  movement,  a  natural  dignity  of 
pose,  which  suggest  the  knowledge  and  skill  more  peculiarly 
recpiired  tor  Historic  Art. 

behind  the  two  pretty  girls  comes  the  long  line  of  fisher¬ 
men,  clearly  tlefined  against  the  dim  background  of  sea  and 
sky.  I  he  whole  canvas  breathes  a  subtle  charm,  still  fur¬ 
ther  enhanced  by  the  harmony  of  the  execution — a  dream¬ 
like  languor  which  clothes  the  hard  lines  of  fiare  fact  with  its 
softerfing  poetry.  I  he  girls  are  simple  Cancale  fisherwomen, 
but,  in  looking  at  the  pure,  classic  outlines  of  their  features, 


Jacquin(J.  Goose  Play. 


SCAI.BKRT  (J.) — .  t  Good  Bottle. 


Gi.UCK  (E.) — I'hc  Tavern  "The  Brass  Pat." 


n 


GENRE. 


II7 

the  imaofination  reverts  to  the  most  graceful  creations  of 

o  o 

ancient  song — to  Nausicaa,  the  sea-princess — the  one  sunny, 
smiling  figure  in  Homer’s  immortal  poem. 

Another  excellent  picture  is  M.  Guillaumet’s  “Palanquins 
of  Lao^houat,”  which  resembles  the  work  last  mentioned — 
less  in  tone  than  in  the  whole  feeling  of  the  drawing  and 
composition — in  the  artist’s  clever  way  of  borrowing  from 
nature  some  of  her  finest  lines.  The  “  Palanquins  of  La- 
ghouat  ”  stand  out  upon  the  camels’  backs  like  great  out¬ 
spread  fans,  their  outline  cut  in  strange  relief  against  the 
glowing  sky  and  the  well-known  simple  forms  of  the  Arab 
out-of-doors  architecture.  In  its  remarkable  wealth  of  color¬ 
ing  the  picture  gives  an  excellent  impression  of  Algerian 
landscape — of  Arabic  Algeria,  that  Ts — the  only  part  of  the 
country  with  any  charm  for  an  artist’s  eye. 

M.  Aime  Perret’s  picture,  “  The  Conflagration,”  is 
worthy  of  his  notable  talent.  At  the  left  of  a  snow-clad 
landscape  is  seen  the  burning  house,  with  firemen  dragging 
up  the  engine  from  the  mairie  of  the  neighboring  village. 
The  composition  is  full  of  snap  and  swing.  Country  fire 
brigades  have  been  the  butt  of  endless  fun  and  “chaff,”  but 
this  particular  company  suggests  nothing  of  the  sort.  They 
are  not  making  themselves  ridiculous  on  parade,  but  facing 
danger  ;  and  they  mean  business.  The  artist  deserves  credit 
for  the  skill  with  which  he  has  avoided  any  hint  of  the  comic, 
and  made  his  interpretation  of  this  little  domestic  drama 
earnest  and  to  the  point. 

M.  Dantan’s  “  Sculptor’s  Studio  ”  has  gained  great  and 
deserved  applause.  As  in  the  picture  just  cited — only  in  a 
greater  degree — the  main  effect  lies  in  the  contrast  of  black 
and  white.  The  background  is  a  white  wall,  covered  with 
busts,  scraps  of  modelling,  and  bas-reliefs,  which,  with  their 
different  shades  of  marble  and  plaster,  fill  up  the  whole  scale 


GENRE. 


I  l8 

of  pure,  l:)luish,  and  )’ellowish  white  tone.  Against  this  high 
light  is  relieved  the  dark  hgure  of  the  sculptor,  who  has 
climbed  on  a  box  to  chisel  more  at  ease  at  his  mythological 
bas-relief.  At  the  artist’s  feet  a  female  model,  in  all  the 
splendor  of  her  glowing  flesh  tones  and  fine  figure,  is  taking 
a  moment’s  rest.  The  elements  are  simple — a  nude  female 


Rougehon  fhe  Vei!  at  a  Carmelite  Ccvcnt. 


figure,  and  a  man  in  sombre  dress,  against  a  white  back¬ 
ground  but  tlif'y  tell  the  whole  story.  You  see  at  once 
how  sharply  the  lines  must  stand  out,  and  how  strongly 
the  work  enchains  the  attention  of  every  passing  visitor. 
While  the  picture  is  effective  at  the  first  glance,  it  only  gains 
by  longer  examination  ;  for  every  detail  is  executed  with 
conscientious  care  and  skill. 


r 

,fr 


,  \  It 


Brun  (A.) — .-I  Proi’cnqal  Fishing-Boat  (Tartan). 


Brown  (J.  L.) — Seasiifc,  Souvcfrir. 


Mektiek  (MIIl-.  a.) — The  Music  I.cssou. 


GENRE. 


127 


Pass  to  one  of  the  pleasantest  among  painters,  M.  Gus¬ 
tave  Jacquet,  who  has  picked  out  an  especially  sunny  corner 
in  the  realm  of  genre  painting  in  which  to  sit  and  tell  his  smil¬ 
ing  tale  of  olden  time.  His  pencil  has  a  touch  of  the  fop  and 
•the  flatterer  in  its  marvellous  skill  at  drawing  the  fair  faces 
of  our  great-grandmother’s  day,  the  rustling  folds  of  old 
brocades,  or  the  sheen  of  heavy  satins,  the  magic  lustre  of 
gold  lace,  and  the  dazzling  glow  of  the  rose.  Looking  at  his 
picture,  “  The  Minuet,”  we  are  tempted  to  compare  him  with 
such  artists  of  the  last  century  as  Watteau,  Boucher,  or 
Nattier,  and  this,  too,  to  M.  Jacquet’s  advantage,  superior  as 
he  is  to  his  predecessors  in  method.  Look,  for  instance,  at 
the  woman  dancing,  in  her  long,  stiff  corsage  of  pearl-gray, 
and  holding  her  white  satin  skirt  spread  like  an  apron. 
How  good  it  all  is  !  Look,  too,  at  her  neighbor,  standing 
with  her  back  to  the  spectator,  gorgeous  in  all  the  richness 
of  her  mauve  satin  dress,  with  its  heavy  flowered  brocade  ! 
Behind  them  is  seen  the  music-gallery,  gracefully  decorated 
in  scrolls  and  arabesques  on  a  pure  gold  ground.  With  its 
fascinating  brilliance  of  coloring,  and  the  pleasant  sug¬ 
gestions  of  its  subject-matter,  the  picture,  on  a  gallery-wall, 
would  be  as  precious  a  bit  of  cheer  and  inspiration  as  a  ray 
of  spring  sunshine — an  embodied  fairy  spectacle,  with  the 
puns  and  bad  spelling  omitted. 

My  admiration  for  M.  Jacquet’s  work  in  nowise  hinders 
my  doing  full  justice  to  M.  Manet,  whose  “  Dinner-Party,” 
comfortably  seated  at  table  at  Lathuille’s,  seems  to  either 
wildly  exasperate  or  as  wildly  amuse  three-fourths  of  those 
who  look  at  it.  The  color  shows  a  sort  of  fierce  and  big¬ 
oted  malice  prepense  in  the  use  of  the  blue  tints,  which 
reminds  us  of  Schaunard’s  famous  song  in  the  “  Vie  de 
Boheme.”  So  far  forth,  the  work  is  offensive  and  weari¬ 
some.  Yet,  with  all  this  needless  harshness  of  treatment. 


128 


GENRE. 


how  nice  is  the  feeling  for  values,  and  how  well  it  gives  the 
fresh  feeling  of  the  open  air.  A  glance  at  the  canvas  shows 
that  it  was  conscientiously  painted,  and  in  single-hearted 
fidelity  to  nature.  The  figures  were  painted  just  as  they 
sat,  on  the  spot,  and  not  in  the  deceptive  half  light  of  the 
studio. 

After  M.  Manet’s  picture  we  pass  to  “The  Storm”  of 
M.  Cot,  a  bit  of  triumphant  conventionality.  Paul  and  Vir¬ 
ginia — the  same  idyllic  young  people  we  saw  in  the  swing 
in  another  of  the  artist’s  pictures — are  scurrying  for  the 
woods,  with  theatrical  strontium  lightning  and  sheet-iron 
thunder  playing  about  them,  wrapped  in  tempestuous  dark¬ 
ness  managed  by  the  gasman.  It  is  prudent  in  them  to 
hurry,  no  doubt,  but  there  is  really  nothing  to  fear.  To  a 
close  examination,  they  are  clearly  made  of  glazed  china, 
and  would  shed  rain  like  a  couple  of  Dresden  mantel  orna¬ 
ments. 

Perhaps  it  is  hardly  fair  to  “  chaff”  over  a  work  whose 
patient  execution  may  fairly  claim  sober  criticism.  Let  it 
be  said,  then,  in  sad  earnest,  that  M.  Cot,  to  my  mind,  car¬ 
ries  science  to  extremes.  He  knows  how  to  paint  as  well 
as  any  one,  and  better  than  most ;  but  he  finishes  and  pol¬ 
ishes  to  excess.  His  surface  is  so  very  sweet,  and  soft, 
and  sheeny,  that  his  flesh  ceases  to  be  flesh,  and  his  leaves 
are  not  leafy.  In  trying  to  dress  up  and  improve  on  nature 
he  merely  runs  away  from  her,  and,  with  all  his  hard  work, 
gives  us  a  result  which  is  neither  true  nor  pleasing. 

After  so  much  insipid  untruth,  we  thirst  for  a  little  tart 
realism;  so,  next  to  the  “Ex-Voto”  of  M.  Ulysse  Bertin, 
where,  for  once,  we  can  find  good  solid  human  beings,  as 
solidly  painted.  With  all  his  family  about  him,  and  his 
youngest  midget  in  his  arms,  a  fisherman  is  going  up  to 
the  village  chapel  to  offer  up  thanks  for  his  safe  return.  He 


Feyen-Perrin  (F.  X.  Return  from  Fishing  at  Low  Tide. 


J 


Mosi.er  ([\.)—T/ie  Weddin^-Drei 


f 


r. 


Geoffroy  (J.) — .1  Future  Savant. 


THE  OFFERING  TO  GOD 


.:Z\/  'fun*'  . 


,  M-* 


I 


GENRE. 


137 


has  been  whittling  out  and  rigging  a  little  boat  in  memory 
of  the  frightful  tempest  he  has  gone  through,  which,  his 
prayer  once  finished,  he  will  hang  on  the  church  walls  as  a 
votive  offering  {ex-voto).  Such  is  the  simple  story  of  this 
excellent  picture,  laudable  alike  for  its  breadth  and  firmness 
of  touch,  its  good  composition,  and  its  genuine  artistic 
feeling. 

Much  in  the  same  style  is  M.  Claude  Cely’s  “  Old  Pea¬ 
sant  Woman.”  The  good  old  lady — in  some  village  of 
Picardy,  to  judge  by  her  costume  and  surroundings — seems 
to  have  outlived  all  her  kith  and  kin,  and  now,  in  her  wrin¬ 
kled  age,  she  sits  solitary  by  the  chimney-corner  with  its  lofty 
old-fashioned  mantel.  That  is  all — a  very  simple  story  sim¬ 
ply  told,  but  very  impressive  for  all  that.  It  is  carefully  and 
conscientiously  studied  from  nature,  without  any  namby- 
pamby  weakness  of  touch  or  color;  and,  in  nine  cases  out  of 
ten,  to  make  a  painting  true  is  to  make  it  beautiful  as  well. 

And  apropos  of  sincerity  in  art,  it  would  be  unfair  to 
overlook  M.  Lhermitte’s  “  Grandmother,”  whom  we  find 
sittinor  on  a  wooden  church-bench,  with  her  little  orand- 
daughter  kneeling  in  prayer  on  the  pavement  at  her  side. 
In  this  bit  the  whole  effect  lies  in  the  contrast  between  the 
fresh  young  face  of  the  girl  and  the  wan  and  laded  features 
of  the  old  lady;  and  the  painter  has  made  it  very  eloquent 
by  his  treatment.  He  has  been  especially  happy  in  the 
painting  of  the  old  lady’s  hands,  one  of  those  test-points  in 
execution  on  which  most  artists  fail,  if  they  do  not  shirk 
them  altotrether. 

Nature  again  supplied  the  theme  for  M.  Buland’s 
“  Pious  Offering.”  At  the  church  door  a  young  girl,  in  her 
white  confirmation-dress,  stands  tending  a  temporary  altar, 
hung  with  lawn  and  dressed  with  roses.  An  old  beggar, 
thankful  for  the  goodness  of  Him  who  has  urged  upon  us  the 


138 


GENRE. 


prime  duty  of  charity,  stops  before  her,  as  he  comes  out  of 
church,  to  drop  into  her  contribution-box  one  of  the  pennies 
that  morning-  bestowed  on  him.  The  whole  makes  up  a  bit 
of  realism  blended  with  emotional  feeling  which  would  be 
just  the  thing  for  the  pen  of  Fran9ois  Coppee,  and  the  pic¬ 
ture,  though  perhaps  a  trifle  dry  in  execution,  is  still  one  of 
the  best  in  the  Salon. 

Our  next  work  touches  the  same  strino-  of  tender  feel- 

o 

ing.  It  is  a  sad  little  bit  of  domestic  drama — a  young 
mother,  in  mourning  garments,  weeping  beside  an  empty 
cradle.  The  interior  is  in  a  Dutch  dwelling,  evidently  ;  wit¬ 
ness  the  gaily  painted  wooden  cradle  with  its  suggestion  of 
early  joys  and  hopes,  its  sad  appeal  to  the  mother’s  tears, 
reminding  her  as  it  does,  with  its  bright  coloring,  of  all  the 
happy  moments  passed  beside  it  in  caressing  and  lulling  to 
rest  the  darling  she  has  lost !  How  empty  and  untrue, 
through  all  her  seeming  resignation,  the  poor  bereaved 
woman  must  find  the  words  which  her  lips  murmur  with  no 
echo  in  her  heart:  “The  Lord  giveth  and  the  Lord  taketh 
away!”  The  studied  simplicity  which  M.  Bischoff  shows 
in  the  treatment  of  this  little  scene  is  highly  pleasing ;  his 
forceful  pencil  brings  out  every  detail  in  strong  and  bold 
relief  against  the  background  of  the  white  wall  with  its  or¬ 
naments  in  Dutch  tiles. 

Worthy  to  be  classed  with  this  is  M.  Eugene  Feyen’s 
“  Watcher  Asleep  ” — another  mother,  but  this  time  a  happy 
one.  Her  poor  little  fisher-hut  is  mean  enough,  but  what 
matters  the  meaofreness  of  the  setting-  while  it  holds  her 

c?  o 

jewel — her  child  ! 

In  children,  those  exhaustless  springs  of  joy  and  sor¬ 
row,  gxnre  painters  have  found  a  favorite  theme  for  prac¬ 
tice.  M.  Adrien  Marie,  who  is  very  happy  in  drawing  their 
little  fits  and  tempers,  gives  us  a  small  child  in  a  i)assion. 


Feyen  (E.) — S/ccpi?!^  Cradk-Rocker . 


Gill  (A  )—  I  he  Drunken  Man. 


f 


;iia 


'.<41 


Delacroix  (E.)  -  The  .  h/^e/as. 


it 


I 


A 


■3 


GENRE. 


147 


shaking  his  miniature  fist  at  a  big  cat,  while  the  cat  good- 
humoredly  declines  to  take  up  the  affront,  and  sits  placidly 
smiling  behind  his  whiskers.  M.  Adrien  entitles  this  funny 
little  passage  at  arms  “  Generosit)c’' 

M.  de  Blaas  takes  us  with  him  into  a  \Anetian  convent 
in  the  last  century.  The  nuns  have  set  out,  it  would  seem, 
to  hold  high  festival  to  St.  Catherine,  the  patron  saint  of 
big  girls  and  little,  so  they  have  allowed  Piilciiiello,  with  his 
puppet-show,  to  set  up  his  stage  in  the  convent  parlor, 
where  he  wofully  bemauls  Ar/ccc/iino,  Pcdrolino,  Mata- 
inoro,  and  all  the  other  dolls  in  the  repertoire.  Fancy 
how  the  little  maidens  enjoy  it,  each  one  after  her  own 
temperament  and  with  her  own  individual  way  of  showing 
it.  One  girl  looks  meditative  about  it,  while  another  stares 
in  amazement.  A  third  face  shows  a  smile  which  gets  no 
farther  than  the  eyes,  while  her  comrade  shows  her  more 
impulsive  temper  by  throwing  herself  back  and  roaring, 
open-mouthed,  whereby  she  gets  mildly  snubbed  by  the 
attendant  Sister,  as  the  presence  of  parents  and  Iriends  in 
the  boxes  enjoins  primness  and  good  behavior.  The  whole 
scene  admits,  and  even  calls  for,  a  good  many  figures  ;  but 
the  composition  is  very  skilful,  and  the  story  is  simply, 
evenly  told,  without  break  in  that  general  harmony  which 
forms  a  prime  condition  of  all  good  work. 

Again,  more  children,  poor  ones  this  time,  cowering 
like  a  nest  of  young  birds  in  the  woods  of  La  Saudraie.  The 
poor  little  people  are  old  acquaintances,  for  Vdctor  Hugo  has 
told  the  tale  in  his  novel  “  Ninety-Three.”  M.  Henri  Pille  has 
painted  them  with  apt  force  and  life,  taking  for  his  purpose 
the  moment  when  the  covey  of  little  rebels  is  flushed,  so  to 
speak,  by  the  approach  of  the  blue-coated  Republican  soldiers. 

M.  Edelfeld,  in  his  picture,  “  Burial  of  a  Child,”  shows 
us  a  Dutch  funeral  on  the  banks  of  the  Zuyder  Zee.  The 


GENRE. 


148 


little  blue  coffin  lies  across  the  Ijoat,  which  is  rowed  by  the 
sorrowing  father,  while  the  mother  and  family  are  w'eeping 
at  the  stern — a  very  noteworthy  bit  ol  character-painting, 
interesting  for  its  choice  of  subject,  as  for  the  talent  dis- 

j^layed  in  the  exe- 
-  ■  »  cution. 


If  similarity 

/  in  feelincr  had 
IH-^ 

been  taken  as  a 


standard  of  classi- 
fication  in  ar¬ 


ranging  the  Sa¬ 
lon,  M,  Jundt’s 
p  i  c  t  ti  r  e  would 
hang  by  that  of 
M.  Edelfeld.  Be¬ 
side  the  Dutch 
boat-funeral 
would  be  set  the 
Alsacian  boat¬ 
wedding — a  par¬ 
ty  of  groomsmen 
rowinu-  back  the 

O 

new  married  cou¬ 
ple  over  a  calm 
lake  studded  with 
bulrushes  and  gay 
with  the  fairest 
shapes  of  flags 
and  water-plants.  The  bright  and  dainty  festival  tone  of  the 
procession  harmonizes  well  with  the  poetry  of  the  lake  back¬ 
ground,  and  the  whole  piece  is  one  of  the  best  of  M.  Jundt’s 
long  list  of  good  pictures. 


Cot  (P.  a.).  —  The  Storm. 


r 


I'cintpar  Haqlu  tle. 


rhotc^ou-are.  Got^xl&C'^ 


FISH  WOMi^^  OF  DIEPPE. 


SAMUEL  L  HAIL 


>] 

I 


■ 


n  * 


Moreau  {A.}~T/ie  Cc?ih 


\ 


■'j 


■4^ 


I 


Faven  (I>.) — The  Marriage  in  Extremis, 


GENRE. 


157 


And  while  we  are  on  the  theme  of  peasants  and  their 
costumes,  let  me  make  mention  of  M.  Mosler’s  Breton  rus¬ 
tics,  as  shown  us  in  his  ‘‘ Wedding  Toilet  -a  pretty  girl 
and  her  intended,  shopping  for  the  ribbons,  stuffs,  and  em¬ 
broidered  goods  of  the  trousseau.  The  artist  merits  our 
thanks  for  his  absolute  fidelity  of  reproduction,  in  all  the  de¬ 
tails  of  this  very  pleasing  composition.  Day  by  day  the 
picturesque  and  distinctive  costume  of  our  rural  population 
is  falling  more  and  more  into  disuse,  and  the  day  seems  not 
far  off  when  we  shall  have  to  refer  to  the  record  offered  in 
such  works  as  these,  to  get  any  notion  of  the  pretty  dresses 
worn  by  our  villagers  in  times  gone  by. 

M.  Emile  Renouf  exhibits  a  very  pleasing  bit — a  fisher¬ 
men’s  graveyard,  with  a  woman  and  child  kneeling  in  prayer 
on  the  moss-grown  granite  flagstones.  The  two  mourners 
face  the  spectator,  and  the  stern,  sad  landscape  around 
them  accords  with  the  feeling  of  the  place  and  circumstance. 
The  canvas  is  good  throughout,  the  composition  fine,  and 
the  execution  harmonious  and  strong. 

It  is  harder  to  speak  concisely  of  M.  Ferdinand  Pelez’s 
contribution,  though  it  shows  some  first-rate  qualities,  and, 
ot  all  the  work  exhibited  this  year,  is  perhajjs  the  only  bit 
which  suggests  the  style  of  Chardin.  His  “  Washerwomen  ” 
are  well  set  on  the  canvas  ;  the  one  in  the  foreground,  gazing 
out  at  the  spectator  while  she  wrings  her  linen  over  the  tub, 
is  a  good  solid  bit  of  a  girl,  and  rather  interesting  too  ;  but 
the  execution  is  not  so  easy  to  praise.  It  lacks  that  calm 
certainty  and  self  possession  which  are  precisely  the  distin¬ 
guishing  merits  of  the  great  master  just  mentioned.  M. 
Perez’s  painting  shows  vigor,  but  he  works  too  hard  for  it. 

M.  Sargent’s  picture,  “Ambergris  Smoke,”  shows  a 
curious  blending  of  technical  skill  with  the  whimsical  taste 
of  the  dilettante.  An  Eastern  woman,  magnificent  in  her  am- 


GENRE . 


158 

pie  drapery  of  white  woollen,  sits  watching  a  censer  placed 
at  her  feet,  from  which  the  pungent  fumes  of  burning  amber¬ 
gris  are  curling  up  to  her  nostrils.  The  high  light  of  the 
room,  of  the  woman’s  white  figure,  and  of  the  smoke,  make 
up  altogether  a  singularly  striking  and  effective  ensemble. 
Such  variations  on  one  tone  of  color  are  not,  to  be  sure, 
among  the  most  difficult  achieveiiients  of  the  art ;  but  it  takes 
knowledge,  and  a  good  deal  of  it,  to  juggle  with  them  as 
deftly  as  M.  Sargent. 

In  trying  to  do  the  same  thing  with  the  red  tones,  in 
his  large  canvas,  “  The  Opera  Mall,”  hi.  Hermans  has  not 
done  nearly  as  well  as  M.  Sargent  with  his  amber  smoke.  His 
picture — to  borrow  a  scrap  ol  studio  slang,  leased  on  that  old 
classic  whim  which  found  relation  l)etween  harsh  sounds  and 
gaudy  colors — his  picture  is  “  loud.”  Pit)'  it  should  be  so, 
for  it  is  full  of  careful  study.  In  the  turmoil  of  people  and 
things  in  his  composition,  we  might  pick  out  some  very  well- 
drawn  types  and  episodes  which  show  close  observation, 
such,  for  example,  as  the  two  pretty  w'omen  in  red  fleshings, 
in  the  foreground.  All  which  only  shows  what  we  knew 
belore,  that  good  fragments  do  not  necessarily  make  up  a 
good  picture. 

The  only  tank  I  can  And  with  M.  Outin,in  his  “Autumn 
Races,”  is  his  over-delicacy  of  touch  ;  his  picture  is  just  a 
little  too  pretty.  Sky,  earth,  water,  and  figures,  are  all  too 
dazzlingly  neat  and  trim,  after  the  fashion  of  Toulmouche, 
with  his  famous  parquet  floors  scrubbed  and  polished  to  the 
last  point  of  waxen  lustre.  M.  Outin  has  plenty  of  clever¬ 
ness,  and,  with  a  little  more  freedom  and  “  eo,”  would  make 
a  first-rate  artist. 

M.  Jules  Worms,  as  clever  as  Outin,  but  not  too  clever  for 
the  good  of  his  practical  skill,  has  put  together  a  ver\'  amus¬ 
ing  scene  of  life  in  Spain,  dkvo  women  with  one  lover  have 


BaauI'.U  (L.  M.) — (ji'or^e  Washington  Taking  Leave  of  his  Mother 


iC 

i 


i  . 


\ 


1 


1 


Hermans  (C.) — .i  Masked  Hall. 


i 

« 


f 

0^ 


Sai  MSON  {\\.)—'J7te  Po/i/y  Hdrvrst. 


iPkotoifnivitre  Goupil &C^ 


GENERO  SITY 


SAM  LJEJ,  i,IIAU...OTr\YYORlE. 


GENRE. 


167 


gone  to  the  justice  to  settle  their  quarrel  and  define  their 
title.  Nothing  could  well  be  funnier  than  the  smiling  face 
of  the  muleteer,  who  seems  to  be  the  article  in  dispute. 

On  the  same  humorous  scale  of  satire,  M.  Adan  has 
very  brilliantly  handled  a  scene  from  Swift ;  Gulliver,  alter 
building  him  a  boat,  showing  the  giants  and  giantesses  of 
Brobdingnag  how  to  sail  it. 

o  o 

It  would  be  wrong  to  omit  mention  of  “  An  Ascension 
in  the  Year  VIII.,”  painted  by  M.  Kaemmerer — a  master  in 
genre-painting — full  of  his  well-known  charm  of  coloring  and 
grace  of  drawing.  Hastily  running  over  the  long  list  of 
pleasing  canvases,  with  their  gay  display  of  bright-colored 
vesture  in  old  fashioned  patterns,  we  may  note  as  among 
the  most  interesting,  M.  Jimenez  Aranda’s  “  Bookworms 
M.  L.  Aranda’s  “A  Minister’s  Anteroom;”  “Marat’s  Bust 
in  the  Colonnade  of  the  Market-house,”  by  G.  I.  Cain  ;  and 
“  The  Maid-ofall-work,”  by  M.  Boutet.  Perhaps  I  should 
add  among  the  list  of  pretty  things,  M.  Vely’s  “  Dawning 
Sentiment,”  for  M.  Vely’s  work  is  always  pretty  even  when  he 
would  have  it  large — a  graceful  painter,  who  follows  Jean 
Goujon  and  d’Allegrain,  and  makes  his  figures  cover  a  good 
deal  of  canvas. 

M.  Rougeron,  in  his  “  Taking  the  Veil  at  the  Carmelite 
Convent,”  treats  a  scene  of  religious  usage  with  impressive 
solemnity  and  fine  emotional  effect. 

In  my  list  I  find  a  final  lot  of  good  pictures  :  “  The 
Return,”  by  Le  Pic — a  marine  view  with  a  stormy  sea,  over 
which  a  little  vessel  is  bringing  back  to  England  the  remains 
of  the  ill-fated  young  prince  who  perished  in  Zululand.  Fur¬ 
ther,  M.  Yon’s  “  Canal  of  La  Villette M.  Lapostolet’s 
“Outer  1  larbor  of  Dunkerque  and  M.  Mols’  “  Ouai  Henri 
IV.”  Of  the  three,  I  much  prefer  Lapostolet’s  picture,  which 
is  the  broadest  in  grasp  and  conception,  and  best  in  execution. 


Lakciier  (J.)  —  Christ  in  the  Scpulchrt 


Debat  Ponsan  (E.  D.)— .-i?  Doorway  of  the  Louvre  on  Saint  Bartholomew's  Dav. 


i 


{ 


Lellux  (A.) — An  Italian  Servant. 


Saintpierre  (G.  C.)—A>t  Unexpected  Caress. 


n 


'/ 


GENRE. 


177 


Study  from  nature,  and  M.  Andre  Gill’s  “  Drunkard.”  In  the 
latter,  the  artist  has  borrowed  a  pag-e  from  the  “  Assom- 
moir  ” — CoLipeau  coming  home  intoxicated,  and  falling  on 
the  floor  between  la  Gervaise  and  Nana.  It  has  created 
much  comment,  and  I  share  in  the  general  admiration  it  ex¬ 
cites,  while  I  regret  that  the  execution  is  a  little  dry  in  com¬ 
parison  with  the  fine,  rich  impasto  of  his  former  picture, 
“The  Captain.” 


RENE  DELORME. 


Lmermitte  (L.  a.)  —  The  Grandmother. 


I 


i 


M  OSLL  R  ( H . ) — ^pifui  ing^. 


ii 

•A.. 


r 


THE  STUDIO. 


I 


T  would  be  hardly  fair  to  feel,  or  to 
express,  any  great  surprise  at  the 
relatively  obscure  position  held  in  the 
present  Salon  by  the  younger  school 
of  Nude  Art.  The  men  who  fill,  at 
the  School  of  Fine  Arts,  the  position 
of  masters  in  this  line — Messrs.  Bou- 
guereau  and  Cabanel — are  not  the  sort 
of  men  to  inspire  their  pupils  with  any 
very  absorbing  passion  for  this  class 
of  work.  In  design  they  stand  for 
little  more  than  the  rear-guard  of  the 
school  of  David,  and,  as  colorists,  for 
nothing  at  all.  There  is  just  one  man 
who  might  have  a  salutary  influence 
in  giving  freshness  to  the  traditions  of  the  school,  and  throw¬ 
ing  into  its  teachings  the  inspiring  force  of  personal  feeling 


THE  NUDE. 


I  84 

— who  might,  in  short,  exercise  the  authority  of  a  master 
over  public  instruction  in  the  nude.  But  this  man  has  never 
been  called  to  the  task — M.  Henner,  I  mean — and  the  secret 
of  his  power  seems  likely  to  die  with  him. 

No  one  can  observe,  without  regret,  the  decline  of  a 
form  of  art  which  is,  and  always  must  be,  the  most  beautiful 
and  noble  of  all  forms.  No  study  can  ever  take  the  place 
of  that  which  wc  devote  to  the  human  figure,  with  its  marvel¬ 
lous  flexibility  of  aspect,  its  delicate  vivacity  of  tone,  its  ad- 
miral)le  harmony  of  proportion  and  exquisite  equipoise  of 
movement.  The  theme  is  one  of  inexhaustible  interest  and 
charm,  and  it  seems  like  mere  jesting  to  say  that  modern 
forms  of  dress  have  robbed  it  of  its  appeal  to  our  sense  of 
the  present  and  real.  Its  interest  is  as  fresh  and  actual  now 
as  ever,  though  injudicious  partisans  have  threatened  to 
make  it  distasteful,  by  incessantly  calling  in  the  aid  of  ancient 
mythology  to  keep  it  alive.  Why  should  they  ?  The  true 
artist  needs  no  legendary  matter  or  treatment  to  help  him, 
when  he  would  paint  the  female  figure  in  the  primal  adorn¬ 
ment  of  its  OAvn  beauty,  in  all  the  triumph  of  its  majestic 
contour. 

1  he  trouble  does  not  lie  with  the  triteness  of  the  theme, 
and  if  our  painters  neglect  it,  their  coldness  springs  from 
other  sources.  The  tyrannous  sway  and  general  popularity 
genre  painting  is  due  to  the  fact  that  it  is  the  only  branch 
which  readily  lends  itself  to  the  narrowness  of  our  dwellinofs 
ami  surroundings,  and  the  commonplace  mediocrity  of  our 
taste.  And  so,  artists  like  M.  Feyen-Perrin,  after  gaining 
high  rank  as  painters  of  the  nude,  are  deserting  it  for  portrait 
or  marine  subjects;  while  others  who,  like  M.  Jean  Beraud, 
were  on  the  way  to  become  masters  in  this  line,  have  taken 
to  chronicling  the ^linutice  of  lite  in  Paris — the  life  especially 
delighted  in  by  \  isitors  from  abroad.  Last  year,  M.  Roll 


Hknner  (J.  J.) — The  Fountain. 


i.1 


Bouguereau  (A.  W.)— 7/;^-  FlascUation. 


sent  us  a  magnificent  study  in  flesh-painting,  live  and  realis¬ 
tic,  which  reminded  us  of  Rubens,  but  this  year  he  lollows  it 
up  with  no  pendant.  The  pupils  of  the  Villa  hledicis,  after 
all  their  Roman  art-study,  are  the  first  to  desert  this  severe 
and  exacting  but  delightful  branch  of  their  profession.  From 
this  point  of  view  we  firmly  believe  that  a  thorough  revival 
will  be  needed,  if  our  school  of  the  nude  is  to  preserve  its 
high  aim,  its  character,  and  its  masculine  vigor. 


PUVIS  l)B  ChAVANNES  (P. ) — Yoini^^  Picards  Exercising  with  the  Lance. 

But  from  all  this  it  would  be  wrong  to  infer  that  the 
department  of  the  nude,  in  the  present  exhibition,  is  entirely 
devoid  of  interest ;  far  from  it.  It  can  still  show  two  great 
masters,  whose  potent  individuality  is,  and  will  still  be  de¬ 
voted  to  its  illustration — M.  Puvis  de  Chavannes  and  M. 
Henner. 

The  former  sends  an  immense  cartoon,  the  literal  first 
sketch  ot  a  long  decorative  panel  meant  for  the  Amiens 


THE  NUDE. 


190 

Museum,  and  a  model  from  which  the  student  might  learn,  in 
one  hour,  more  about  drawing  than  from  twenty  years’  study 
at  the  Palais  de  la  Rue  Bonaparte.  In  a  landscape  designed 
with  a  large  and  lofty  simplicity  peculiarly  his  own,  he  shows 
us  a  group  of  young  men,  in  Picardy,  practising  with  the  spear. 
In  the  centre  is  a  group  of  eight  figures,  one  of  whom  steps 
forward  to  hurl  his  javelin,  while  another,  hanging  back, 
playfully  brandishes  and  tosses  his  own.  The  target  is  at 
the  right.  Near  it,  but  farther  forward,  is  a  group  of  by¬ 
standers,  one  of  whom — a  woman — kneeling  on  one  knee 
with  a  child  in  her  arms,  and  her  back  to  the  spectator,  is  a 
masterpiece  of  graceful  and  symmetrical  flow  of  line.  Behind 
the  contestants,  at  the  left,  a  man  of  middle-age  seems  to  be 
telling  some  tale  of  warlike  adventure  to  a  couple  of  women, 
half  reclining  on  a  turf-clad  hillock.  .Still  farther  in  the  back¬ 
ground,  two  young  girls  are  busy  with  household  work, 
while  an  old  crone  is  scolding  a  little  girl  lor  breaking  and 
sj)illing  a  jug  of  milk.  The  attitude  of  the  child,  hiding  its 
tear-stained  face  with  its  arm,  is  capitally  conceived,  as  true 
in  drawing  as  in  feeling.  With  its  blending  of  the  idyl  and 
the  epos,  this  fine  composition  is  really  the  pride  of  this 
year’s  Salon — like  a  page  of  Victor  Hugo  or  Homer,  astray 
among  the  motley  leaves  of  this  volume  of  trite  adventure 
and  cheap  romance. 

How  well  it  bears  out  what  I  have  been  saying!  Noth¬ 
ing,  after  all,  could  be  more  modern  than  this  superb  work, 
but  with  a  (juality  which  I  might  take  leave  to  call  the  eter¬ 
nally  modern,  the  sum  and  comprehension  of  all  perma¬ 
nently  interesting  features.  At  first  glance  it  reminds  you  of 
a  Parthenon  bas-relief  Look  at  it  a  little  longer,  and  you 
see  easily  enough  that  the  figures  are  not  merely  Greek 
models  modernized,  as  Louis  David  would  have  treated 
them,  but  real,  downright,  lusty  young  rustics  of  Picardy, 


Bonnat 


Cabanei,  (A  )—Phtdie. 


THE  NUDE. 


195 


with  just  such  forms  and  features  as  you  might  see  there 
any  day,  and  with  heavier  muscles  than  we  find  in  the 
Laocoon  or  the  Cincinnatus.  Nor  has  the  artist  borrowed 
his  landscape,  like  Poussin,  from  the  trite  traditions  of  Ar¬ 
cadia.  It  is  a  bit  of  real,  fertile,  lush  P'rench  meadow-land, 
with  its  sheaves  and  winrows,  and  long  files  of  trees  mark- 
ine  out  the  horizon  lines.  So,  as  I  have  said,  in  character 
of  figures  and  landscape,  the  work  is  modern  of  the  mod¬ 
erns  ;  in  idea,  classic  with  the  thought  which  runs  through 
the  ages.  Ludiis  pro  Patria,  says  the  descriptive  legend 
attached.  These  lads  are  practising  for  the  defence,  some 
day,  of  their  native  land.  If  the  motto  has  any  covert 
meaning,  it  is  very  discreetly  conveyed,  for  the  thought  is 
broad  and  familiar  as  the  hopes  of  all  conquered  nations, 
which,  while  resting  from  past  reverses,  brood  over  the 
hopes  of  retaliation  to  come.  Trite  or  not,  however,  it 
serves  to  lend  a  finer  meaning  to  this  already  fine  compo¬ 
sition. 

It  is,  as  I  have  said,  full  of  good  drawing.  An  admi¬ 
rable  quality  of  M.  de  Chavannes,  as  a  designer,  is  his  con¬ 
cise  way  of  putting  his  figures  in  relation,  and  the  extreme 
simplicity  of  line  employed  to  indicate  motion.  Thus,  in  the 
picture  under  discussion,  the  group  of  youths  are  practising 
a  very  robust  and  violent  exercise,  yet  you  will  not  find  one 
whose  pose  disturbs  the  general  harmony  of  the  composi¬ 
tion.  Even  the  fellow  hurling  the  spear  seems  to  put  in¬ 
to  it  no  uncomfortable  effort.  The  academic  method  shows 
its  real  robustness  and  vigor  precisely  in  this  avoidance  of 
exaggerated  muscular  development  and  distorted  move¬ 
ments  or  features.  Young  men  show  their  strength  by 
nobler  and  larp^er  means.  If  we  set  beside  these  grand 
bits  of  modelling  one  of  M,  Bonnat’s  nude  figures,  we 
at  once  feel  the  difference  between  the  two  traditional 


THE  NUDE. 


1  96 

methods,  and  see  which  of  them  has  real  dignity  of 
drawing. 

And  yet  what  immense  effect  the  artist  attains  with 
this  scrupulous  economy  of  means  !  He  teaches  us  the 
same  theoretical  lesson  we  have  learned  before  from  the 
graven  stone  of  many  an  ancient  monument.  In  this  whole 
long  series  of  figures  we  find  no  loop-hole  for  cavil  over 
any  break  in  the  dignity  of  the  principal  lines,  any  lapse  of 
clearness  or  simplicity,  any  bagging  in  the  interest.  Noth¬ 
ing  could  be  more  varied,  yet  nothing  could  more  com¬ 
pletely  blend  to  the  final  unity  of  the  whole.  Each  grouj; 
offers  a  different  form  of  action,  yet  all  are  welded  in  one 
forceful  conception,  whose  close  tissue  shows  no  broken 
link.  Really,  for  those  who  are  conscientiously  seeking  a 
great  school  of  the  nude,  M.  Puvis  de  Chavannes’  is  as 
good  as  the  most  famous  masters  of  any  age.  Ilis  works, 
it  is  true,  borrow  a  peculiar  element  from  their  very  intent, 
which  is,  primarily  and  essentially,  decorative.  They  should 
be  seen  on  the  spot  where  they  really  belong,  to  most  thor¬ 
oughly  enjoy  their  wonderful  refinement  of  taste,  and  the 
masterl}^  way  in  wliich  they  are  fitted  to  their  appropriate 
position  and  purpose.  Marseilles,  Amiens,  and  Poitiers  can 
1)oast  of  three  of  his  best  works ;  but  Paris  claims,  perhaps, 
the  Imest  of  all,  in  the  “  Life  of  .St.  Genevieve,”  at  the 
Pantheon,  a  much  needed  offset  to  the  decoration  of  the 
rest  of  the  building.  Still,  spite  of  the  special  direction  his 
studies  have  taken,  they  form  a  magnificent  source  of  in¬ 
struction  for  our  younger  students  of  the  nude,  who  could 
ask  no  better  models.  Their  lofty  intellectual  features  make 
their  study  only  the  more  to  be  commended,  in  an  age 
which  h  as  lost,  along  with  all  feeling  for  poetry,  the  poetry 
Itself,  and  expressly  scorns  in  works  of  art  that  essential 
spiritual  element  without  which  all  real  art-work  becomes 


vN'’  '  '''\y^^ 

^ho  y^'.^-^  ^'i^,  <?-7£y  "^' 


Bali.AVOI.ne  (]  )  —  7Vu’  Interrupted  Sittiu.^. 


J-^/tjOtff^ravure  C'~ 


THE  LITTLE  CHICKWLED  SELLER 


SAMUEL  L.HALL. 

NEWYORK  . 


.1 


■> 


'i 


dl 


1 


Fkkrault  (L.) — The  Triumph  of  Love. 


THE  NUDE. 


201 


impossible.  In  my  opinion,  we  are  under  the  greatest 
obligation  to  M.  Puvis  de  Chavannes  for  being,  as  he  is, 
not  only  a  great  painter,  but  a  thinker  as  well. 

M.  Henner,  like  M.  de  Chavannes,  a  poet  and  a  great 
painter,  is  yet  like  him  only  in  kind  of  talent  and  aspiration. 
He  even  seems  to  affect  a  sort  of  indifference  as  to  the 
meaning  and  aim  of  his  work  or  the  interest  of  its  theme. 
No  one  would  seem  to  care  less  for  legendary  dress  or  fab¬ 
ulous  detail.  His  heroines  answer  to  no  familiar  name,  and 
they  puzzle  and  fascinate  us  with  their  beauty,  but  they  tell 
us  no  story.  But  in  just  his  avoidance  of  picturesque  data 
and  historic  enhancement  lies  the  real  greatness  of  this 
powerful  artist.  The  theme  he  handles  has  no  supplemen¬ 
tary  interest  to  borrow  from  chronicle  or  record;  it  is  its 
own  best  interest.  To  the  end  of  time,  when  the  spheres 
shall  stay  their  weary  round  through  space,  one  single  nude 
female  figure,  backed  by  a  bit  of  sky,  a  scrap  of  foliage,  and 
a  bubbling  fountain  is,  and  will  remain,  the  most  superb 
sight  ever  seen  by  human  eyes.  What  care  we  for  her 
name.  She  is  fair,  and  we  ask  no  more.  Such  an  one  it 
was  who  tendered  the  first  man  her  insidious  apple  ;  such 
an  one  let  loose  the  anger  of  the  gods  on  fated  Ilium  ;  she 
it  was  who,  for  a  price,  has  a  thousand  times  betrayed,  and 
will  as  often  again  betray  human  kind — the  fateful  partner 
whom  destiny  has  chained  at  our  side,  our  never-dying  foe, 
the  too  seductive  worker  of  our  helpless  ruin.  What  daz¬ 
zling  visions  of  glory  and  joy  nestle  in  the  triumphant  ra¬ 
diance  of  her  golden  hair  !  What  hopes  have  sunk  to  sleep 
in  the  warm  shadow  of  her  half-revealed  bosom  !  In  the 
revelation  he  continually  gives  us  of  the  deathless  charm 
which  lingers  about  her  lightest  movement,  and  in  his  fine 
setting  of  natural  scenery,  the  fitting  background  for  her 
beauty,  M.  Henner  himself  keeps  the  freshness  of  immortal 


202 


THE  NUDE. 


youth,  and  succeeds  in  remaining  at  once  classic  and  essen¬ 
tially  modern. 

Hie  gelidi  fontes,  hie  niollia  prata,  Lyeori  ! 

As  evening  draws  on  and  the  azure  of  the  sky  grows  dusky 
a  moment  before  bursting  into  the  amber  glories  of  sunset, 
the  foliage  takes  on  a  darkness  lit  only  by  a  tinge  of  russet 
which  hints  the  last  rays  of  the  descending  sun.  Against 
this  dense  and  sombre  curtain  is  seen  the  figure  of  the 
nymph,  kneeling  with  one  knee  on  the  brink  of  the  spring, 
one  hand  lolded  across  her  bosom,  and  her  auburn  hair 
drooping  in  waves  about  her  face  and  neck,  gazing  at  her 
own  image  in  the  calm  mirror  which  repeats,  in  counter¬ 
part,  the  blue  arch  overhead.  While  the  outlines  of  the 
figure  stand  out  from  the  dark  azure  of  the  sky,  the  legs  are 
relieved  against  the  background  of  the  shadowy  foliage. 
The  whole  is  finely  harmonized,  and  the  irresistible  charm 
which  blends  with  its  power,  leaves  a  haunting  impression 
on  the  memory.  It  is,  like  all  M.  Henner’s  nude  figures, 
painted  in  monotone — a  final  test  of  skill  among  masters  of 
figure  painting — but  a  monotone  so  absolutely  delicate  and 
beautiful  as  to  make  it  one  of  the  achievements  of  contem¬ 
porary  art.  No  one  so  well  as  M.  Henner  can  render  the 
ivory  sheen  which  plays  over  the  feminine  contour,  and  show 
the  warm  tint  of  the  life-blood  coursing  beneath  the  trem- 
ulous  amber  tones  of  the  skin.  No  one  is  so  fully  master  of 
that  delicacy  of  modelling  which,  without  a  break  in  the 
unity  of  tone,  hints  by  subtle  shades  of  relief  at  every  inflex¬ 
ion  and  every  movement  in  this  dazzling  concrete  of  star¬ 
dust  and  moonlight. 

“Wondrous,  ideal  mould  of  woman’s  form  !’’ 

to  quote  from  Victor  Hugo,  and  the  verse  seems  to  have 
been  written  for  a  motto  to  M.  Henner’s  painting.  To  me 


SCHUTZENBERGER  ( L.  F.) _ The 


« 


fiUMBERT  (P\) — Salome^ 


THE  NUDE. 


207 


it  is  no  blame  to  say  that  he  repeats  himself.  So  does  na¬ 
ture,  but  we  never  get  tired  of  her.  Indeed,  M.  Henner  is 
almost  as  great  in  landscape  as  he  is  in  figure.  Corot’s 
“  Vision  of  Virgil  ”  seemed  to  shiver  in  the  early  breath  of 
the  dawn  with  its  feet  bathed  in  the  morning  dew.  M. 
Henner’s  vision  rests  by  the  spring  at  the  twilight  hour, 
when  the  light  comes  down  to  gather  fresh  strength  and 
retemper  its  blunted  rays,  when  the  daylight  heat  has 
scorched  out  even  the  tepid  moisture  of  the  air,  and  night 
begins  to  enfold  the  mountain  slopes  and  the  sleepy  foliage 
with  its  mourning  veil.  Corot’s  nymphs  are  dancing  in  the 
dewy  rays  of  dawn,  Henner’s  sadly  and  pensively  gazing  at 
the  sunset.  And  yet  silly  people  are  found  to  reproach  him 
with  lack  of  composition  !  What  composition  could  be  as 
good  as  the  strong,  earnest,  infectious  feeling  of  life  and 
nature  which  his  pictures  carry  with  them?  To  paint  high 
art  we  must  begin  by  discarding  low  methods  and  means. 
He  who  shows  us  womanly  beauty  bathed  in  the  atmos¬ 
phere  of  worship  which  breathes  from  nature  and  natural 
things,  paints  high  art,  if  any  one  does.  From  the  stand¬ 
point  of  aesthetics  as  well  as  from  that  of  coloring,  M.  Hen¬ 
ner  is  a  great  master,  and  one  of  the  glories  of  the  French 
school,  not  only  of  the  present  but  of  all  time. 

M.  Bonnat’s  “Job”  dates  from  a  much  lower  form  of 
artistic  tradition  ;  it  is  merely  a  good,  workmanlike  bit  of 
the  kind  we  summarily  dismiss  with  the  brief  commendation, 
“Very  clever.”  Now  to  be  clever  in  art  amounts  to  little; 
what  we  want  to  find  is  the  beautiful.  In  his  anatomy  M. 
Bonnat  affects  the  dreary  exaggerations  of  certain  special 
conditions.  Every  one  will  remember  his  “  Crucifixion  ”  at 
the  Palais  de  Justice,  with  a  principal  figure  so  painfully  lean 
that  the  eye  could  count  the  ribs — lit  up,  too,  by  some  mys¬ 
terious  system  of  illumination  utterly  unlike  anything  in  day- 


2o8 


THE  NUDE. 


light  or  daylight  objects.  His  “  Job  ”  seems  modelled  from 
the  same  data.  The  old  beggar-man  sits  unsightly  in  his 
repulsive  nakedness,  one  leg  bent  back  under  the  other, 
in  the  posture  of  a  man  who  would  kneel  if  his  strength 
allowed.  The  gesture  of  his  half-extended  arms  is  eloquent 
in  its  wretched  appeal  to  the  commiseration  of  every  chance 
passer.  The  aged  head,  with  its  venerable  silver  beard  and 
two  light-colored  eyes,  which  look  like  pits  in  snow,  is 
slightly  thrown  backward  and  up.  Save  for  the  shadow  of 
the  beard  on  his  chest,  and  the  deep,  contorted  wrinkles  of 
the  skin,  every  detail  is  in  high  light,  while  a  scrap  of  dark 
stuff  is  drawn  over  the  right  leg,  and  the  stomach,  criss¬ 
crossed  with  a  network  of  tangled  veins,  stands  out  in 
amazing  sharpness  of  relief.  A  very  remarkable  bit  of  tech- 
niqiic,  certainly  ;  but,  to  say  nothing  of  the  absolute  lack  of 
idealism  which  pervades  it,  from  its  dry  severity  to  the  sober 
charm  of  Puvis  de  Chavannes,  or  the  harmonious  beauty  of 
1  leaner,  is  a  long  step. 

Rut  in  another  sense  it  is  quite  as  far  from  M.  Bonnat’s 
vigorous  and  learned  studies  to  the  platitudes  of  M.  Bou- 
guereau.  His  “  .Scourging  of  the  Saviour”  might  stand  for  a 
model  how  not  to  paint ;  for  the  whole  has  a  certain  preten¬ 
tious  air  which  makes  it  look  as  if  meant  for  a  model  for 
some  one.  The  sufferer  hangs  by  the  hands  from  two  iron 
rings,  the  body  writhing  backward,  and  the  legs  dragging 
on  the  ground,  while  two  executioners  lash  him  with  thongs, 
and  a  third  is  binding  rods  for  a  new  variety  of  torture.  In 
the  background  a  crowd  of  indifferent  bystanders  are  seen 
ranged  before  a  Doric  gateway  in  selected  studio  positions. 
The  noteworthy  point  in  the  whole  picture  is  the  air  of  set 
purpose  and  conventional  arrangement  in  the  attitudes,  as  if 
the  whole  thing  were  got  up  for  a  tablean  vivant.  The  three 
men  with  the  thongs  and  rods  are  planted  in  pseudo-classical 


GiaCOMOTTI  (F.  H.) — The  Centaur  and  the  Nymph. 


THE  NUDE. 


21 1 


poses,  without  the  least  visible  trace  of  vitality.  You  feel 
that  the  scourge  will  never  fall,  and  the  rods  never  get  tied. 
Even  the  figure  of  Christ  is  introduced  only  to  get  in  an 
emaciated  body  and  an  anatomical  effect  in  the  cramped  con¬ 
tortions  of  the  feet  upon  the  ground — the  elements  of  the 
work  which  monopolize  technical  interest  and  attention.  For 
M.  Bouguereau  is  fond  of  braving  difficulties  in  drawing,  and, 
to  do  him  justice,  always  comes  off  victorious.  In  this  regard 
he  is  wondrously  skilful ;  probably  no  one  ever  modelled  so 
many  hands  and  feet  in  so  many  curious  and  exceptional  at¬ 
titudes.  But  why  tack  these  amazingly  finished  bits  of  line 
drawing  on  poor,  suffering  historical  painting?  No  one  will 
ever  be  got  to  believe  that  the  Saviour  went  through  all  this 
scourging  and  vile  insult  merely  for  the  pleasure  of  showing 
how  the  muscles  of  the  toes  contract  with  pain.  Yet,  psycho¬ 
logically  speaking,  that  is  all  we  get  from  the  picture,  to 
say  nothing  of  the  coloring,  which  is  dull  in  surface,  and  dry 
and  unpleasing  in  tone. 

Altogether  better,  spite  of  a  similar  triteness  of  theme, 
is  his  “  Young  Girl  and  Cupid.”  In  a  dimly  lighted  landscape, 
under  a  tree  with  serrated  leafage,  very  scientifically  and 
minutely  drawn,  a  young  girl  is  seated  on  a  rock,  bending 
slightly  forward,  and,  Avith  outstretched  arms,  pushing  away 
the  winged  youngster,  who  aims  at  her  with  an  arrow  in  his 
right  hand,  while  the  left  leg  is  bent  in  an  effort  to  clamber 
on  her  lap.  The  lines  of  the  girl’s  figure  are  very  flowing 
and  graceful,  and  set  off  with  very  pleasant  effect  against  the 
background.  The  arms  are  a  little  stiff  and  conventional, 
but  fairly  correct.  There  is  a  certain  charm  in  the  face, 
affected  and  even  a  trifle  silly  as  it  is,  and  the  feet,  resting 
entirely  on  the  toes,  serve  to  heighten  the  effect.  The 
child’s  figure  is  agreeable  in  feeling,  though  the  modelling 
is  not  strong,  and  the  warm  amber  tone  of  the  flesh  relieves 


212 


THE  NUDE. 


and  contrasts  well  against  the  tone  of  the  sky.  Altogether 
the  picture  will  hardly  rank  above  the  painter’s  average 
work.  It  entirely  lacks  dramatic  interest  and  strong  coloring, 
but  it  justifies  the  public  indulgence  for  an  artist  who,  spite  of 
a  tendency  to  dryness  and  conventionality,  really  has  talent. 

It  is,  however,  far  from  deserving  to  rank  beside  M. 
Cabanel’s  “  Phaedra,”  i.c.,  as  low  down.  In  this  picture, 
try  as  I  may,  I  can  find  no  single  quality  of  color  or  compo¬ 
sition  which  is  not  at  least  quite  as  conventional  as  the  two 
just  mentioned,  while  it  is  far  from  showing  the  same  inge¬ 
nious  drawing.  On  a  couch,  of  the  shape  fashionable  during 
the  Empire,  in  a  room  of  theatrical  pattern — which  looks 
like  the  side  scenes  of  the  Odeon — lit  by  two  lamps,  one  of 
them  smoking,  lies  a  woman,  with  her  head  half  wrapped  in 
a  black  veil  decked  with  silver.  One  hand  rests  on  the 
forehead,  the  other  droops  on  the  coverlet,  half  resting  on 
the  stomach  and  outstretched  legs.  Seated  at  her  feet  is  a 
woman,  slee])ing,  with  her  hands  spread  open  on  her  knees; 
and  an  old  crone,  her  eyes  red  with  weeping,  gazes  at  her 
with  hands  clasped  in  despondent  attitude  over  her  knees. 
Such  is  the  weary  and  wearisome  creature  we  are  asked  to 
take  for  the  daughter  of  Minos  and  Pasiphae  :  the  inces¬ 
tuous  spouse,  parched  with  pitiless  fever  of  desire ;  the 
love-sick,  desperate  queen,  with  her  sublime  wail : 

“  Hapless  wretcli  !  still  alive  !  still  enduring  the  sight 
Of  the  god  of  my  sires — sacred  emblem  of  light!” 

Certainly  tragic  horror  was  never  embodied  in  a  tamer 
conception  ;  and  it  is  a  strange  and  beautiful  sight  to  see 
how  M.  Cabanel  translates  Racine  !  Why,  we  repeat,  need 
we  abuse  the  fine  old  legends  to  give  excuse  for  such  mean- 
ingless  figures?  Instead  of  “  Phsedra,”  it  would  be  nearer 
the  mark  to  call  the  canvas  “A  Courtezan  Moping;”  it 


Bertrand  (].\—The  Bini-Charmer. 


\ 


Ilf 


.-.V  ’ 


\ 


r 


AN  ACCIDENT- 


THE  NUDE. 


215 


would  save  the  anticlimax  of  recalling  a  whole  cycle  of  lofty 
memories  and  splendid  fable  to  get  at  a  result  so  absolutely 
null.  All  this  might  count  for  nothing  if  the  work  showed 
any  trace  of  interest  as  a  bit  of  painting,  bar  from  it ;  the 
drawing  of  the  chief  figure  is  absolutely  cheap  and  poor, 
and  the  modelling  meagre  beyond  example.  M.  Cabanel’s 
impasto  grows  thinner  with  each  new  canvas,  without  gain¬ 
ing  in  delicacy  of  touch,  while  his  tone  remains  curiously 
dull  and  coarse.  In  harmony,  too,  the  work  shows  the  ut¬ 
most  poverty  of  resource  ;  there  is  no  pleasant  relation  in 
his  way  of  leading  up  from  the  pale  violet  tints  of  the  back- 
fjround  to  the  dead  white  of  the  flesh.  The  Salon  swarms 
with  works  which  show  a  less  practical  hand,  but  it  would 
be  hard  to  find  many  so  absolutely  uninteresting,  and  its 
lesson  and  tendency  is  just  the  sort  of  thing  which  our 
younger  painters  should  shun. 

hi.  Colmon’s  “  Cain  ”  shows  us  a  handful  of  human  waifs 
swept  along  the  earth  by  the  breath  of  some  awful  and 
mystic  power.  In  a  desert,  the  horizon-line  broken  by  a 
brown  mud  wall,  over  sands  parched  by  the  noon-day  heat, 
the  malefactor  wends  his  way,  his  family  following  in  sad 
procession ;  wild-haired,  ragged  men,  dusty  children,  and 
tired,  care-worn  women,  bedewing  the  weary  way  with  the 
sweat  of  their  ang-uish  and  their  toil.  At  the  head  walks 
the  patriarch,  like  a  man  stumbling  and  groping  through  the 
dark,  with  his  blood-stained  hands.  After  him  comes  the 
rest  of  his  race,  bearing,  on  a  rude  litter,  an  old  woman  and 
their  provision  of  meat.  There  is  a  certain  grandeur  in  the 
ensemble — a  certain  picturesque  interest  in  the  sight  of  a 
whole  race  lashed  by  the  stings  of  one  man’s  remorse,  and 
crushed  beneath  the  enduring-  curse  of  one  man’s  ill-doing. 
A  brief  examination,  however,  will  show  that  the  work  has 
no  fine  quality  to  raise  it  to  the  real  grandeur  of  the  fine  text 


r 


THE  NUDE. 


216 

from  the  “  Legencles  cles  Siecles,”  which  it  illustrates.  Sim¬ 
ply  to  set  this  immense  canvas  opposite  the  work  of  M. 
Puris  de  Chevannes,  would  be  the  most  concise  and  com¬ 
prehensive  criticism.  M.  Colmon  shows  a  certain  boldness 
and  freedom  in  his  treatment  of  the  nude,  but  absolutely 
no  leeling-  for  plastic.  Cain’s  neck  and  shoulders  are  simply 
monstrous,  and  one  or  two  huge  figures  in  the  group  leave 
us  in  doubt  whether  they  be  men  or  women.  The  whole 
canvas  is  earnestly  designed,  and,  from  a  decorative  point,  is 
at  first  glance  very  imposing,  as  I  have  said.  It  is  hard  to 
say,  however,  how  the  painter  explains  his  light,  and  the 
coloring  is  pallid,  wan  and  dull.  The  best  thing  about  it  is 
a  certain  logical  consistency  in  the  impression  it  makes, 
which  helps  to  explain  its  imposive  first  effect. 

M.  P'errier’s  “  Salammbo  ”  was  on  the  catalogue,  and, 
though  now  removed  from  the  gallery,  claims  mention,  as 
specimens  of  the  nude  are  scarce  enough  this  year  to 
make  its  absence  felt.  The  heroine  of  Eustace  P'laubert’s 
clever  book  is  seen  struggling,  with  voluptuous  languor, 
in  the  embrace  of  an  enormous  serpent,  her  lip  bleeding 
from  the  rude  caress  of  its  forked  tongue.  His  heaviest 
folds  are  wrapped  about  her  buxom  figure,  and  the  tail, 
after  encircling  the  legs,  makes  a  double  spiral  about  her 
arm,  outstretched  in  an  attitude  of  lassitude,  not  unmin¬ 
gled  with  pleasure.  Her  head  is  thrown  back,  resting  on 
the  heavy  masses  of  her  raven  hair,  and  the  bust  stands 
out  under  the  pressure  of  the  serpent-coil  above  the  ab¬ 
domen.  On  the  same  carpet  with  this  writhing  group,  a 
kneeling  slave  is  playing  on  the  lute.  Of  M.  Ferriers 
coloring  it  would  be  well  to  speak  very  cautiously;  it  is 
easier  to  accord  frank  praise  to  his  seemingly  very  true 
ideal  of  the  female  figure  in  plastic  regards,  as  illustrated 
in  the  simple,  yet  harmonious,  lines  of  the  painting. 


Pekrault  (V.)—Love  Asice-p. 


THE  NUDE. 


219 


We  pass,  by  an  easy  transition,  to  M.  F.  A.  Clement’s 
“  Circassian  Slave,”  outstretched  and  nude  like  the  Sa- 
lammbo,  but  with  flowers  and  jewels,  not  venomous  ser¬ 
pents,  to  divert  her  solitude.  Solitude,  I  say,  for  so  far  as 
companionship  goes,  we  need  not  count  the  two  attend¬ 
ants  sitting  at  her  feet,  smoking,  and  harmlessly  watching 
over  a  virtue  which  seems  in  no  danger.  The  composition 
is  a  trifle  trite  and  conventional ;  but  there  is  excellent 
modelling  in  the  chief  figure,  and  a  unity  of  tone  very 
essential  to  the  matter.  The  drawing  is  florid  and  not 
unpleasing,  and  the  coloring,  if  not  very  delicate,  is  yet 
soft  and  agreeable.  Taken  altogether  it  may  be  fairly 
added  to  the  small  list  of  noteworthy  pictures  this  year. 
M.  Comtat,  too,  sticks  to  the  same  high  range  of  subject, 
and  it  would  be  a  pity  to  discourage  him.  But  his  “  Nymph,” 
besides  being  too  violently  modern  in  treatment,  is  very 
puerile  in  modelling.  M.  Comtat  is  an  estimable  and  tal¬ 
ented  young  artist,  but  he  should  beware  of  lapsing  into 
that  feebleness  of  execution,  and  thinness  of  iinpasto,  with 
which  M.  Cabanel  makes  such  a  dreary  mess  of  his  later 
works.  His  temperament,  never,  apparently,  very  mas¬ 
culine,  seems  to  be  growing  more  and  more  effeminate. 

One  brief  glance  at  M.  Foubert’s  “Satyr  and  Nymphs,” 
which  is  not  near  so  good  as  M.  Roll’s  “Silenus”  of  last 
year.  Strictly  speaking,  such  subjects  need  a  touch  of 
natural  dash  and  enthusiasm,  or  an  ingenuity  of  invention 
which  shall  raise  them  to  the  symbolic  plane ;  or,  better 
yet,  first  rate  execution  of  the  nude.  None  of  these  good 
things  appear  in  the  present  picture,  a  large  canvas, 
showing  three  girls,  with  heads  absolutely  void  of  charac¬ 
ter,  and  no  fine  elevation  of  plastic  in  the  forms,  engaged 
in  teasinof  a  bearded  Faun,  who  looks  like  a  srood  aver- 
age  practising  attorney.  One  smears  his  face  with  grape- 


220 


THE  NUDE. 


juice,  a  second  steals  his  cone-tipped  staff,  and  the  third, 
behind  him,  is  enjoying  his  perplexity,  the  whole  in  a 
tame  bit  of  landscape,  a  sort  of  cross  between  Arcadia 
and  Neuilly-sur-Marne.  In  background,  M.  Giacomotti’s 
“Centaur  and  Nymph”  is  a  great  improvement  on  the 
other,  but  hardly  in  the  figures.  There  is  something  not 
very  seemly  in  Dejanira’s  liberal  display  of  hips  and 
thighs  as  she  sets  her  loot  in  the  hand  of  Nessus,  who  is 
hoisting  her  on  horseback  after  the  most  approved  circus- 
clown  fashion.  The  Nymph,  who  is  anxiously  scanning  the 
distance  as  if  dreading  the  wrath  of  the  deserted  Hercules, 
is  rather  graceful  with  her  half-seen  profile  ;  but  both  fig¬ 
ures  are  cheap  in  tone,  and,  consequently,  not  really  good. 

M.  Merle’s  “Fallen  Hebe”  covers  her  face  with  one 
hand  while  her  empty  wine-jar  droops  from  the  other,  A 
light  drapery  streams  back  from  her  two  arms,  and  the 
background  is  taken  up  with  an  allegorical  vision  show¬ 
ing  the  triumph  of  the  gods,  and  the  downfall  of  those 
who  incur  their  wrath.  The  whole  painting  is  notabl) 
lacking  in  vigor.  M.  James  aims  at  largeness  of  manner 
in  his  “Bird  Charmer”  a  berry  brown  nymph  against  a 
Ijlue  sky,  piping  to  the  tree- tops  with  her  long  tibia  or 
double  flute.  The  work  has  a  faint  flavor  of  imitation — a 
vaofue  simcrestion  of  Henner — and  loses,  it  is  needless  to 
say,  by  the  comparison.  Decoratively  speaking,  however, 
it  is  well  enough,  and  its  most  marked  fault  is  the  way 
in  which  the  girl’s  waist  is  set  into  her  hips,  the  one  too 
long  drawn  out  and  loose-jointed,  the  other  too  meagre. 

The  visitor  will  have  an  agreeable  surprise  in  a  pic¬ 
ture  by  M.  Ballawine  which  is  much  better  than  could 
have  been  hoped  from  his  past  work.  In  his  “Interrupted 
Sitting”  is  seen  a  girl  sitting  on  a  divan,  in  a  studio, 
with  a  palette  and  a  guitar  lying  beside  her;  nude,  except 


FoUBERT  (E.  L,  ) — Satyr  Toi  ine?itid  by  iS'yinplis, 


A 


•  ' 


THE  NUDE. 


223 


for  a  black  shawl,  which  half  reveals  her  snowy  bust  and 
her  legs  bare  from  the  knee  down.  The  flesh  tone  is 
exquisite,  the  head  pretty  and  spirited,  and  the  whole 
modelling  extremely  delicate ;  a  very  charming  bit,  as  en¬ 
joyable  for  the  general  eye  as  for  the  critic,  who  looks 
deeper  than  the  simply  picturesque.  The  transition  is 
natural  to  the  similar  subject  of  M.  Bompard,  “A  Model 
Resting.”  But  M.  Bompard’s  model  displays  her  beauty 
with  a  serene  disregard  of  flg-leaves,  lying  with  her  back 
to  the  spectator,  in  a  room  with  a  top-light,  and  strewn 
with  the  various  small  accessories  of  the  studio.  The  dif¬ 
ferent  objects  are  treated  with  admirable  vigor,  while  the 
torso  is  broadly  and  firmly  done  in  rich  and  juicy  tone — 
a  thoroughly  good  bit  of  painting.  A  little  stiffness  may 
be  noticeable  in  some  details — the  lines  of  the  stomach, 
for  instance,  are  not  very  flowing — but  the  work  unmis¬ 
takably  shows  the  hand  of  an  artist,  destined,  perhaps,  to 
carry  out  the  promise  suggested  by  M.  Jean  Berand’s 
“Leda,”  which  all  connoisseurs  remember. 

M.  Humbert’s  “Salome”  reposes  on  a  seat,  crowned 
with  a  variegated  halo,  which  sheds  a  rather  harsh  light 
on  her  auburn  tresses.  With  both  hands  she  holds,  resting 
against  the  arm  of  the  chair,  a  golden  charger,  with  the 
blood-stained  head  of  John  the  Baptist.  She  seems  to 
gaze  at  the  frighthil  object  with  gentle  indifference,  her  legs 
crossed  under  her  in  a  restful  and  easy  fashion,  while  the 
drapery  she  has  just  laid  off  droops  upon  the  ground. 
Behind  her,  a  tree,  with  serrated  foliage,  stands  out  dark 
against  a  light  sky,  and  at  the  right,  within  reach,  is  a 
vase,  of  brilliant  blue,  filled  with  flowers. 

The  tone  of  the  work  is  highly  conventional  and  arti¬ 
ficial,  but  still  infinitely  better  than  M.  Humbert’s  later  con¬ 
tributions.  This  one  is  more  like  one  of  his  better  works. 


224 


THE  NUDE. 


the  “  Massaoncla.  ”  Though  a  trifle  meagre  in  execution,  it 
has  some  good  decorative  quality  ;  but  it  is  very  far  from 
being  high  art.  We  need  not  linger  over  M.  Wagrez’ 
"Orestes,”  with  the  three  Furies  plucking  at  his '  cloak,  a 
sort  of  classic  version  ol  Joseph  and  Mine.  Potiphar,  only 
with  three  termagants  instead  ol  one.  The  conception  of 
the  work  lacks  spirit,  and  the  execution  is  little  better. 

M.  de  Liphart’s  "Science”  is  in  a  sitting  posture,  lifting 

the  veil  from  the  head  of  a  Sphinx. 
It  is  a  large  figure,  of  good  decora¬ 
tive  quality,  and  the  merit  of  being 
painted  in  a  single  tone. 

It  would  be  wrong  not  to  men¬ 
tion  two  pretty  little  bits  by  Mme. 
Demont-Breton,  "  The  Spring,'’ 
and  "  April  Flowers.”  The  first, 
the  better  of  the  two,  gives  us  a 
female  figure  standing  by  a  foun¬ 
tain.  The  color  is  juicy  and  the 
tone  very  pleasing.  The  other  lies  at  length  in  a  green 
meadow,  and  has  most  of  the  pleasant  quality  of  its  pendant. 

M.  Blanchard’s  "  Francisca  di  Rimini”  stands  out 
against  a  background  of  dark  sky,  while  her  lover  stands 
near.  The  execution  lacks  crispness,  but  the  composition  is 
interesting  in  its  way,  though  I  must  take  exception  to  the 
little  cloud  about  the  loins  of  the  female  figure.  Such  little 
artistic  tricks,  for  propriety’s  sake  are  apt  to  be  failures.  The 
nude  is  chaste  enough  of  itself,  when  loftily  treated,  and 
has  no  need  to  l)e  "trussed  up” — to  quote  from  Diderot — 
with  such  ostentatiously  decent  half-clothing.  I  cannot  con¬ 
clude  without  mentioning  M.  Chartran’s  "Mandolin  Player,’ 
a  trifie  dull  in  tone,  but  graceful  withal,  and  M.  Daux  s 
"Woman  and  Doves,”  very  delicate  intone,  the  light  rose- 


Wagrf.z  (J,  C.)—0/c-sU’s. 


THE  NUDE. 


225 


tint  of  her  pretty  hg^ure  exquisitel)'  relieved  ag-ainst  a  mass 
of  outspread  blue  drapery,  hi.  Bontel’s  “  Lesson  ”  shows 
a  nude  female  hgure  poring  over  a  scrap  of  writing ;  an 
academy  study,  painted  with  a  full  brush,  but  absolutely  \’oid 
of  character.  M.  Parranet’s  “Sleeping  Cupid  ”  runs  too 
much  to  pink  and  white,  and  M.  Schiitzenberger’s  “  Gior¬ 
gione  ”  runs  away  from  the  real  Italian  coloring  altogether. 


Orry  (A.) — The  Sleeping  Diana. 


I'urther  to  be  noted  are  M.  Orry’s  “  Sleeping  Diana,”  an 
agreeable  composition  on  a  small  scale,  with  a  pleasant 
sort  of  poetry  in  it ;  and  M.  Parrot’s  female  figure  stretched 
under  an  apple  tree  in  blossom,  a  little  over  classic,  but  still 
correct  in  drawing.  .Special  mention  is  due  to  M.  Gustave 
Moreau’s  “  Galatea,”  dazzling-  in  her  shower  of  qolden 
hair  and  precious  stones  ;  a  brilliant  illustration  of  the 
literal  side  of  art,  so  to  speak,  but  full  of  a  hue  dreamy 
suggestiveness,  which  is  more  than  can  be  said  of  most 
of  the  pictures  we  have  reviewed. 


ARMAND  SILVESTRE. 


I 


r 


To  comment  on  landscape, 
and  landscape  painters  in 


the  Salon,  is  a  pleasant  task,  for 
our  French  artists  seem  born  for 
this  special  work,  as  English¬ 
men  are  born  to  colonize  the 
uttermost  ends  of  the  earth, 
and  a  Spaniard  is  supposed  to 
play  the  guitar  in  his  cradle. 
When  we  look  at  the  history  of 
painting,  we  find  landscape  al¬ 
most  a  modern  invention.  The 
school  of  so-called  “  primitifs  ” 
devotes  all  its  energies  to  repro¬ 
ducing  the  human  features  ;  the  \Tnetians,  with  \Tronese, 
care  for  little  else  but  the  splendor  of  palatial  architecture  ; 


COLI N  ( P. ) — Decorative  Panel. 


LANDSCAPE. 


the  Romans,  with  Raphael,  in  their  occasional  use  of  land¬ 
scape  give  us  nothing  but  the  scantiest  hint  of  a  scrap  of 
road  or  a  thread  of  rivulet.  For  all  these  artists,  nature 
has  no  meaning.  In  the  earlier  times  of  art,  trees,  houses 
and  rocks  are  all  reduced  to  the  same  indifferent  dead 
level ;  the  painters  seem  to  parade  their  sovereign  scorn 
for  all  inanimate  objects,  and  treat  them  as  strictly  secondary 
elements. 

In  the  seventeenth  century,  however,  two  strangers, 
both  Frenchmen,  made  their  appearance  in  Rome,  bring¬ 
ing  with  them  that  germ  of  national  genius  which  they 
themselves  had  not  consciously  recognized  ;  and  straight¬ 
way  they  began  to  read  in  Nature  what  the  Romans  had 
disdained  to  look  at.  Poussin  sets  up  his  easel  in  the 
field  :  Claude  Lorraine  goes  down  to  the  beach,  and  stud¬ 
ies  the  dying  light  of  sunset  on  the  water.  Sun  !  Sea ! 
Mere  were  ol)jects  which  the  Romans  had  always  treated 
as  mere  accessories  when  they  allowed  themselves  to  treat 
them  at  all. 

True,  these  early  efforts  showed  the  tendency  of  the 
time,  the  pompous  artificiality  of  the  age  of  Louis  XIV. 
Poussin  had  not  got  so  far  as  to  paint  nature  in  undress  ; 
he  tricked  her  out  with  ringlets  and  jewels,  and  decked 
her  in  manufactured  graces,  and  put  her  in  fit  state  for 
presentation  in  the  salon  of  Versailles.  Claude  Lorraine,  on 
the  other  hand,  piled  up  chimerical  palaces,  crowded  with 
lords  and  ladies  in  court  costume,  and  adorned  with  rococo 
colonnades.  They  were  Frenchmen  of  their  time;  and, 
travel  where  they  might,  they  never  shook  from  their  feet 
the  dust  of  their  native  soil. 

The  rei^n  of  the  c^’rand  and  artificial  school  of  land- 
scape  lasted  long.  It  chimed  in  with  the  same  tendency 
in  tragedy,  with  the  full-bottomed  wigs  and  stiffly  recti- 


y  ^  -A 


v" 


■»•.  .  ^:.  — • 

■■ 

'  r"  .^  .:  r, 


,•>•  ■  »  'V^  tTV.'S.-.'  ■'-iV“-S  ••  ■'!.*•" 

■■■:■.'  O'  -iK 


I;.  ^ '?'’  V 


V  ^^4"  ¥  '  •■’ 

«■  p  .  -  '  .«•  ••'  -  '  P^'S'-  •^-  -• 

■  '  . . 

P  <•;;}%■.■!,  •_  ■,■•, 

w.-- 


IM 


'■  .  ■  '"Jp 


‘..J  vVj 


:  J  ■■•■.-&  -■-  ■’”■% 


.  .  v' 


■1.  ''-  ■■•'VI 


'X'i 


S.-'  •  .  •♦>. 

i  n^: 


r 


4 

■■ 

N  '  O 

i-i'  -  i!  use  of  Itu^ 
s  •  •:  A^nr  'oi  '.V  SQrup  r.; 

■  ..r'’,s>s,  tmun%e 

.  '.  hr';  I  ..;  .  house*' 

i-uv  i-j  ,.riv  rJ'i^iaicr'ent 

'  to  p.^aMrlt:  >  ;gn  sCO-r>>. 

iid  trt.-i;- iju  !.j  .  .  ■  ty  ■seconOa  ■" 

century,  h'. ■,■■■<.  ,-.  ■,  stfan]|t^ 

nyif- ■  app,ra:-aic  ■  ■  HxJine, 

n  of  natioif.i  y  -ci.r?.  chich  l? 

ciQusly  recoy'-i;t,'>-;'  ’ 

.1'  N.iilurt'  vVipit-  '  ■  i^t’inans-  n  r  -  . 
seis.f  '  ■  ecsel''in  *  ■ 

'V  • 

cs  uu^.-n  to  if''  ■ 

.  w  ■  ; ■{  -SunJ  S* 

’  f'loinarf'  ''^■w^ayg- tre«.. 

;ts  <  '  vn-  untie? 

'  ■  '■'•  •''TV'  '  ■ 

;  c  y-'  ro  i  ,  ind  d<>^-  ; 

c  oul  ,  .  ' 

■-  f: 

i  -f--  ■ '  '  Lorr^i;-.  I  . 

'■  ■_  i.'^) W'C^v** 

.  •  .  .*  .>v'  , 

,osf'’c''.  ,y\s?ith'- 

i  •  '.'■  ir  tiir*' 

- '  -  f*om  rW  ' 

:'s.  .olKMi;  ••  .  :, 

fcriknv- 
•'■y ,  ■  aniJ 


■r-J 


THE  SHE 


jJik 


13 K  K  N I K R  ( C. )  — -1  / orn ing. 


f- 


I 

1 

« 


1 

i 

4 


JUND'I'  (G.)  -Riturn  of  the  Bride. 


J  ! 


Knight  (D,  l<.)-r/^c^  Halt  (Fragment). 


L  A  NDSCA  PE. 


235 


linear  architecture  and  clipped  yew-trees  and  boxwood 
hedges  of  the  day.  We  have  done  with  all  that  now¬ 
adays  once  for  all.  Just  as  the  novel-writers  are  throw¬ 
ing  aside  the  merely  fanciful  element  in  narration,  and 
coming  closer  to  pure  and  simple  observation  of  fact,  so 
with  the  painters.  They  are  tired  of  “classic  arrange¬ 
ment”  and  the  laws  of  symmetry  hammered  into  them  in 
the  class-room ;  it  strikes  them  with  a  refreshinof  sense 
of  conviction  that  Rembrandt,  for  instance,  when  he  saw 
a  barn,  painted  a  barn,  and  went  straight  to  the  truth 
by  the  shortest  road.  And,  after  all,  Rembrandt  teaches 
probably  as  good  lessons  as  M.  Paul  P'landrin  or  M. 
Aligny. 

In  the  Salon  this  year,  the  so-called  historic  school 
of  landscape  is  quite  unrepresented,  save  for  a  few  timid 
folk  who  anxiously  try  to  run  with  the  hare  of  academic 
conventions  and  the  hounds  of  popular  taste.  So  long 
as  the  earth  turns  on  its  axis,  we  shall  always  find  a 
few  of  these  timorous,  undecided  people,  always  ready  to 
shout  for  King  or  Commons  with  the  veering  of  each 
new  breeze. 

I  confess  I  had  expected  something  better  of  M. 
Camille  Bernier  with  his  masculine  boldness  and  sincerity 
of  style;  and  his  “Morning”  is  rather  a  disappointment. 
His  trees  are  very  solemn  trees,  no  doubt,  with  the  richest 
of  branchage  and  leafage ;  oaks,  seemingly,  such  as  the 
old  Gallic  Druids  would  have  chosen  to  lend  their  shelter 
to  a  sacrifice,  or  supply  the  sacred  emblematic  ivy.  Wdiy, 
then,  this  mixed  and  imperfect  satisfaction  I  take  in  the 
result?  Simply  because  I  feel  as  if  M.  Camille  Bernier 
were  trying  to  “humbug  me,”  if  I  may  be  allowed 
the  expression ;  because  the  work  has  the  look  ot 
having  been  got  up  with  a  sort  of  effort  and  malice 


r 


LANDSCAPE. 


236 

prepense  which  instinctively  puts  me  on  my  guard.  Near 
the  trees  above  mentioned  I  see  a  boat,  with  a  fisher¬ 
man  getting  ready  to  cast  his  nets.  But  the  boat  is  a 
canvas  and  pasteboard  machine  from  the  side  scenes  of 
the  Opera  Comique,  just  the  sort  of  thing  to  utterly 
destroy  your  faith  in  boats  in  general.  It  makes  me 
think  of  the  “dear  little  women”  in  red  handkerchiefs 
which  Cerot  used  to  drag  into  every  one  of  his  land¬ 
scapes  under  pretext  of  “giving  them  animation;”  as  if 
you  could  make  me  believe  that  wherever  Cerot  happened 
to  lay  his  pencils  and  color-box  there,  forsooth,  were  sure 
to  be  his  “  dear  little  women,”  red  kerchiefs  and  all,  pick¬ 
ing  up  sticks  ! 


Lintelo  {C.  ) — Mangel-wurzel. 


In  the  other  extreme  from  M.  Camille  Bernier  is  M. 
\"on,  with  his  “  Banks  of  the  Marne  at  Isle-les-Villenoy.” 
Here,  at  all  events,  we  stand  in  the  front  rank  of 
modern  tendency.  It  is  a  ver)'  familiar  scene  he  offers 
us  :  grass,  meadows,  clumps  of  trees,  and  quiet,  white  cot¬ 
tages,  shut  in  1)y  the  gentle  slopes  Sainte-Beuve  was  so 
fond  of,  and  crowned  by  the  parish  steeple  of  some  name¬ 
less  village;  a  perfectly  cjuiet  pastoral  scene.  M.  Yon 


Node  (Cn.)  — 7//£-  Lez. 


■•V  i'.'./  //"A  •■’7 — (■'.■O  (  [ 


I 


Rai’IN  (A.) — Aiiliimii. 


LANDSCAPE. 


243 


makes  no  attempt  to  “give  animation”  to  his  work.  The 
two  peasant  women  walking  along  the  bank  are  of  the 
pattern  usual  to  these  out-of-the-way  corners  of  e.xistence 
— -you  don’t  go  to  Isle-les-Villenoy  for  a  crowd. 

Nor  must  you  look  for  life  and  stir  on  the  calm 
birches  of  the  Lez,  to  which  M.  Node  invites  us.  The 
Lez  ?  Where  under  the  sun  is  the  Lez  ?  you  will  ask ; 
for  never  was  river  which  made  less  noise  in  the  world. 
The  Lignon  always  reminds  us  of  Mile,  de  Scudery,  and 
the  Loire  gets  some  celebrity  from  the  poetic  wanderings 
of  Ronsard;  but  nothing  but  the  stray  roaming  of  an 
idle  painter  in  the  department  of  I’Herault  ever  unearthed 
the  Lez.  On  looking  into  the  matter,  I  find  that  while 
the  torrents  of  Languedoc  and  Provence  are  dry  nine 
months  of  the  year,  the  Lez  keeps  the  same  level  winter 
and  summer,  and  has  no  current,  while  the  banks  are 
thickly  wooded.  A  very  different  stream  is  the  Oise, 
which  fresh-water  sailors  frequent  and  M.  Veyrassat  likes 
to  paint.  M.  Veyrassat,  by  the  way,  has  betaken  himself 
to  the  rural  districts.  His  “Little  farm”  represents  a 
ploughman  resting;  his  horses,  harnessed  to  some  sort  of 
modern  prize  cultivator,  have  stopped  to  take  breath, 
while  a  little  lad  looks  on  with  the  indifference  natural  to 
youngsters  who  have  not  begun  to  take  life  in  earnest. 

We  find  a  bit  of  Alsatian  life  in  M.  Junedt’s  “Coming 
from  the  Wedding,”  and  are  glad  to  see  it,  interested  as 
we  are  in  everything  from  Mulhouse  or  Colmar,  or  even 
Guebwiller  or  Schelestadt.  M.  Colin’s  decorative  bit, 
“The  Storks,”  is  also  worth  a  glance. 

The  severity  of  last  winter  stirred  up  several  of  our 
artists  to  new  energy;  so,  braving  the  frost,  and  shivering, 
knee-deep  in  snow,  under  the  cutting  blast,  they  went  to 
work  to  leave  to  posterity  a  record  of  last  December 


244 


LANDSCAPE. 


and  its  events.  Some  of  the  Americans  went  down  by 
the  Saumur  railway  to  see  the  Loire  frozen  over ;  but  M. 
Luigi  Loir  thought  enough  of  such  fascinating  and  awful 
things  were  to  be  seen  in  Paris.  He  was  right.  The 
sight  of  the  Seine  frozen  over  offered  subjects  of  interest 
tor  the  most  exacting  in  such  matters.  M.  Loir’s  picture 
looks  like  a  bit  of  the  passage  of  the  Beresina,  or,  better 
still,  of  the  Stygian  shades.  Dim  phantoms,  with  great 
coat-collars  turned  up,  or  fur-trimmed  cloaks,  flit  over  the 
sleety  pavements  like  souls  in  torment  with  Charon  at  their 
heels  ;  the  sky  is  dark  with  drifting  clouds,  and  the  dark, 
lonely  spectral  outlines  of  the  houses  stand  out  sharply 
in  the  chance  gleams  of  daylight.  One  thing  about  it 
I  do  not  like.  I  cannot  help  fancying  that  the  street 
passengers  look  like  the  very  same  Parisians  with  whom 
M.  Loir  took  us  last  year  to  the  “  Inundation  at  Bercy.” 
So  the  poimlation  of  Paris  would  seem  to  be  made  up  of 
some  dozen  inquisitive  people  who  never  change — -we  are 
never  to  get  rid  of  Gill,  the  caricaturist,  and  always  and 
everywhere  we  must  see  Mile.  Sarah  Bernhardt ! 

A  favorite  site  for  painters  of  scenes  in  Paris  is  the 
Bridge  of  Austerlitz,  with  its  view  of  Notre  Dame,  so  it 
seems  natural  enoLmh  to  find  M.  Guillemet  at  work  there. 

o 

His  picture,  taken  from  a  point  near  the  wine-stores,  is 
commendable  for  breadth  of  execution,  and  its  freshness, 
freedom,  and  correctness  of  tone,  of  which  he  shows 
especial  knowledge.  His  sky  and  water  are  alike  excel¬ 
lently  done,  but  his  earth  is  less  successful  in  manipula¬ 
tion.  It  would  be  unfair  to  expect  him  to  handle  all  four 
elements  at  once.  The  ground  in  M.  Guillemet’s  picture 
seems  made  of  liquid  mud,  decaying  matter,  and  unsightly 
detritus,  whereas  he  took  his  stand  exactly  at  the  local¬ 
ity  of  one  of  the  city  piers,  as  neat  and  clean  as  muni- 


r 


SLEEPING  CUPID 


Fkekic  lTii.]—Carav^„  Bchocai  Meaa  a„d  C\uro. 


r 

■  J  r 

•  <• 


(^^) — In  the  Pou/tr 


1 


1 


jAi'Y  (L.  A  I—///  ihe  Plain  at  Villers-Cotterets. 


'1 


< 


LAN  DSC  A  PE. 


251 


cipal  care  and  attention  can  make  it.  But  he  could  not 
do  without  the  pier,  else  his  picture  would  have  lacked 
local  correctness ;  so  M.  Guillemet  must  take  his  place 
with  the  rest,  in  the  list  of  “arrangers.”  But  I  beg  him 
— and  even  in  legal  phrase,  “call  on  him  — to  drop  such 
bad  company;  he  has  nothing  to  gain  and  everything  to 


Watelin  (L.  V.) — The  Mill  on  the  jVes/e — Mornifi^if  Scene. 


lose  with  associates  who  carry  their  morbid  fancy  to  such 
unwarrantable  extremes. 

M.  Arsene  Dubois  gives  us  art  in  its  reposeful 
phase.  For  six  months  at  a  time  he  shuts  himself  up  in 
his  country  house  in  Champagne,  a  little  way  from  Troyes, 
a  region  we  have  to  thank  for  Miy-nard  and  Girardin, 
to  say  nothing  of  the  pork-butchers.  As  Horace  found 
all  he  wanted  at  Tibur,  so  M.  Arsene  Dubois  sticks  to 


252 


LANDSCAPE. 


the  Departement  de  I’Aube,  and  a  very  small  nook  of  it, 
hardly  even  down  on  the  map.  He  might  be  called  the 
man  from  Cresantignes,  so  assiduously  does  he  paint  its 
hills,  ponds,  potato-helds,  orchards,  and  market-gardens. 
Cresantignes  for  ever!  I  took  a  last  look  at  the  village 
in  the  Exhibition  of  1879,  and,  lo !  here  we  have  it  again 
in  1880.  The  Cresantigne  foliage  at  twilight  seems  to 
take  on  a  warm  tinge,  which  is  much  to  its  credit,  as  if 
it  had  borrowed  from  the  Dutch  school  a  touch  of  its 
chiaroscuro. 

And  really  nothing  could  well  be  more  poetic  than  the 
open  fields  at  nightfall.  Take  a  man  with  lyric  yearn¬ 
ings  in  his  soul,  and  set  him  beneath  the  pale  beams  of 
the  Goddess  of  Night,  and  you  are  pretty  sure  to  find 
that  literature  has  gained  by  a  new  sonnet,  or  music  by 
a  new  romanza.  If  a  toll  from  the  village  steeple  hap¬ 
pens  to  chime  in  with  the  first  twinkle  of  starlight,  so 
much  the  better — the  cup  of  inspiration  will  brim  and  run 
over.  In  Revolutionary  days,  bells  had  no  such  ideal 
significance ;  they  were  cast  for  warlike  uses.  It  was  a 
stern,  practical  period,  from  which  have  come  down  to 
us  a  few  national  songs  with  a  whiff  of  gunpowder  in 
every  stanza,  but  not  a  strain  of  poesy. 

In  those  days,  what,  we  may  naturally  ask,  would 
have  become  of  M.  Jules  Mreton,  with  his  sad  and  pensive 
turn  of  mind?  Probably  the  “Winnowers”  would  never 
have  seen  the  light.  This  year  the  artist  sends  us  other 
winnowers,  more  pretty  and  attractive  than  ever.  One 
has  carelessly  dropped  off  in  a  nap ;  another  is  stretch¬ 
ing  her  stiffened  limbs  to  shake  off  the  autumn  chill ;  a 
third  is  gazing  about  her  with  a  sort  of  dreamy  vague¬ 
ness,  which  is  very  pleasing.  M.  Breton’s  country  women 
are  very  different  things  from  the  stupefied  and  brutified 


Dupke  (J.) — Moxvers  of  J..uccr)7c  Grass. 


1 


f. 


•tf 


% 


I 


II 


i  ^ 


'  \ 


VkVRASSAT  (J,  J.) — The  Liitle  Farm. 


S’ 


wiiif 


U? 

I1> 


a.j 


' "  '* 


c 


'.  v, 


•  } 

K_  ,  i 


LANDSCAPE. 


257 


creatures  whom  Millet  studied,  with  such  hard  rustic 
earnestness,  through  the  long  winter  evenings,  M.  Breton 
keeps  the  proper  medium  between  the  ideal  and  the  real¬ 
istic  ;  if  he  avoids,  on  the  one  hand,  the  school -girl 
prettiness  of  Florian,  neither  does  he  sink  to  the  coarse¬ 
ness  of  Zola.  I  doubt,  however,  whether  village  girls 
are  always  as  charming  as  painters  make  them  out.  M, 
Feyen-Perrin  has  given  us  a  revised  version  of  the 
Cancale  oyster-women  ;  M.  Bouguereau  dresses  us  up  his 
bevy  of  lovely  Italian  girls.  M.  Knight  puts  resistless 
fascination  into  his  Poissy  milkmaids;  and  I  don’t  see 
why  I  may  not  be  honestly  obliged  to  M.  Jules  Breton 
for  a  thrill  of  sincere  and  healthful  emotion.  Lovers  of 
nature  are  happy  people,  happier  than  they  know  them¬ 
selves,  for  they  have  the  added  satisfaction  of  making  us 
sharers  in  their  joy,  far  away,  restful  and  calm,  far  from 
the  city’s  din,  far  from  civilization  and  all  its  sophistica¬ 
tions,  where  no  actress  smiles  beneath  the  gas-light,  and 
no  fumes  from  the  cheap  restaurant  taint  the  pure  even¬ 
ing  air. 

M.  Knight  seems  to  me  sure  to  win  an  excellent 
place  among  the  painters  of  village  scenes.  His  “Halt” 
shows  steady  and  conspicuous  improvement ;  the  com¬ 
position  is  exquisitely  careful  and  discreet,  the  coloring 
subtle  and  delicate,  and  the  tone  pleasing.  The  spectator 
is  tempted  to  wonder  what  the  two  girls  have  stopped 
by  the  fence  to  talk  about — love-secrets,  mayhap,  or  the 
last  quotations  in  the  vegetable  market  ?  I  like  the  first 
guess  rather  the  better ;  at  twenty,  with  eyes  as  bright 
as  theirs,  sentiment  is  apt  to  get  ahead  of  speculation. 
You  are  very  comely  girls,  my  dears;  and  I  fancy  the 
village  Don  Juan  is  as  much  puzzled  between  you  as 
Paris  shilly-shallying  between  Venus  and  Minerva. 


LANDSCAPE. 


258 

Rut  perhaps,  after  all,  Paris  would  have  handed  over 
his  apple  to  M.  Lerolle’s  “  Shepherdess,”  for  she  is 
lovely  enough  to  cure  Alccste  of  his  misanthropy  and 
stir  him  to  o'entler  indulgence  for  Ccliincnc  with  all  her 
false  and  fair  sisterhood.  Such  a  shepherdess  would 
shine  as  a  bright  particular  star  among  the  sweetest  of 
Nanterre  r osier cs.  Her  face  is  as  pure  as  her  bearing  is 
shy  and  modest,  and  the  lambs,  who  may  be  trusted  as 
good  judges  in  the  premises,  browse  the  green  twigs  from 
her  maiden  hand  in  kindred  and  sympathetic  confidence. 
They  may  well  feel  trustful  in  the  good-will  of  their 
young  mistress,  who,  for  blows,  gives  them  caresses,  and 
carries  them  in  her  bosom,  and  decks  their  necks  with 
garlands.  M.  Lerolle’s  canvas  is  of  large  dimensions, 
and  at  first  sight  a  subject  so  simple  and  idyllic  seems 
hardly  capable  of  extension  over  so  much  surface.  But 
in  fact  the  canvas  is  so  well  filled  that  we  are  conscious 
of  no  gap.  Any  such  which  threatened  to  occur  have 
been  deftly  supplied  with  fitting  matter — white-rinded  wil¬ 
lows,  a  ploughman  with  his  team — a  rocky  ledge  dimly 
seen  through  the  blue  haze  of  the  noonday  heat.  The 
picture  has  a  fine  effect  of  distance,  light,  and  air,  with 
a  fresh  breeze  palpably  stirring  the  foliage.  M.  Lerolle 
paints  like  a  man  fresh  from  reading  a  Virgilian  eclogue, 
a  song  of  Goethe,  or  a  sonnet  of  Coleridge. 

It  is  sad  to  see  hi.  Francais  drifting  backward  into 
the  ranks  of  the  Old  Guard.  His  hand  has  lost  its 
lightning,  his  ideas  are  getting  fat  and  scant  of  breath, 
and  his  genius  has  mounted  spectacles.  Where  can  he 
have  been  to  find  such  whitey  gray  tones  and  such 
platitude  of  effect?  Clearly  M.  Francais  is  ten  years 
behind  the  times. 

M.  Sege,  on  the  contrary,  steps  forth  in  all  the 


FouCAUCOUKT  (G.  he) — The  Ruins  of  the  "  Chateau  de  Clisson. 


I 


A 


It 

% 


THE  SPRING. 


M/UviUELL  H.-LT-. 


/ 


UUBOIS  (C.  E.)  — 77/^  Quay  "  Foiida)nc?ite  A'liova"  at  Vcrtic 


{■ 


■  ■"*- 


-I 


! 


»■: 


•^.1 


LANDS C A  PE  . 


263 

serene  audacity  of  extreme  youth — no  need  to  hunt  up 
his  birth-register ;  his  work  bears  no  sign  of  wrinkles 
or  gray  hairs.  His  “View  of  Coubron,”  in  Seine-et-Oise, 
must  have  been  ordered  by  the  real-estate  owners  of  the 
neighborhood,  so  strongly  does  it  savor  of  ground  lots  for 
sale  and  villas  to  let.  M.  Sege’s  picture  offers  all  the 
inspiriting  promise  ot  an  auctioneer’s  prospectus ;  a  mere 
glance  at  his  blooming  fields,  housed  in  convenient  and 
cheerful  sites,  green  meadows,  splendid  kitchen-gardens, 
and  fertile  soil,  fills  us  with  a  wild  desire  to  pack  up  our 
household  goods  and  migrate  to  this  Eden  of  delights. 
“ ’Tis  there  I’d  live — ’tis  there!”  sighs  Mignon,  with  M. 
Ambroise  Thomas’  accompaniment.  Some  fine  morning — 
M.  SeQfe  aidinof  and  abetting — we  shall  start  on  an  ex- 
ploring  expedition  among  these  fine  things,  and  woe  to 
the  luckless  painter  if  they  do  not  come  up  to  sample  ! 

We  are  haunted  with  a  suspicion  that  M.  Hanoteau, 
too,  is  playing  a  like  sly  little  game  with  us ;  but 
perhaps  not.  His  “Sleeping  Waters,”  true  to  their  name, 
are  drowsy  with  their  prompting  to  slumber  under  their 
still  and  shady  coppice,  near  the  motionless  flags  and 
water-lilies,  where  the  dragon-fly  hovers  on  his  wings  of 
quivering  gauze.  M.  Hanoteau’s  water  is  very  special 
and  exceptional  water,  of  a  certain  and  mysterious  dia¬ 
mond  clearness  and  transparency.  The  fish  whose  high 
privilege  it  is  to  swim  in  it,  must  be  ranked  among  the 
very  upper-tendom  of  finny  society,  with  all  the  means 
and  leisure  to  sport  and  frolic  and  stare  out  of  windows 
and  taste  all  the  delights  of  a  more  than  Neapolitan 
do/cc  far  Jiientc,  unabashed  by  the  fear  of  being  sent 
back  to  the  bottom — and  the  mud. 

And  speaking  of  Naples,  what  a  lucky  fellow  is  that 
excellent  artist,  M.  Jean  Benner,  who  winters  at  Capri, 


264  LANDSCAPE. 

but  in  much  more  innocent  lashion  than  the  savage  old 
voluptuary  Tiberius,  who  lived  there  before  him.  His 
“  Street  in  Capri  ”  is  rather  a  different  affair  from  the  Rue 
Vivienne — women  sitting  with  their  knitting-work  along 
the  whitewashed  walls,  boys  going  about  with  baskets 
of  oranges  on  their  heads,  and  scraps  of  old  stone 
stairway  and  other  scraps  of  older  blue  sky  overhead. 


Hanoteau  (tl.) — Sleeping  Waters. 


The  Italian  women  of  M.  Hebert  and  M.  Schnetz 
are  mere  academy  studies,  as  conventional  as  possible. 
l)ut  M.  Ifenner’s  Capri  girls  are  a  very  different  thing 
from  the  studio  models  who  huddle  into  Monge  Square 
toward  evening.  M.  Benner  is  to  the  manner  born  in 
Capri — no  one  thinks  of  posing  for  him  ;  when  he  wants 
a  sketch  from  life,  they  just  let  him  sharpen  his  pencils 
and  go  to  work ! 


o 

C- 


abin  at  BilhDiconrf ;  Snow  Effect. 


|r 


•>*;4s 

■  •« 

i 


liKi-.roN  (J.  A.) 


t 


'  I 


LANDSCAPE. 


269 


In  just  the  same  way  the  Highlanders  seem  to  treat 
M.  Gustave  Dore,  the  one  Parisian  to  whom  it  is  given 
to  know,  by  personal  experience,  the  real  tacts  about  the 
much-vaunted  Scotch  hospitality.  It  gives  one  a  shudder 
to  think  of  the  mountain  heights  he  had  to  climb  in  order 
to  paint  his  souvenir  of  “  Loch  Carron.”  Nothing  of  the 
sort  can  be  found  at  less  than  two  thousand  feet  above  the 
sea-level — such  silver  showers  of  waterfall,  such  tangible 
rainbows,  such  herds  of  cattle  dotting  the  moss-grown 
rocks,  such  bottomless  ravines  with  blue  lakes  gleaming 
through,  such  cairns  and  caverns  and  snow-peaks  as  go 
to  make  up  M.  Dore’s  picture  of  Loch  Carron.  Perhaps 
his  imagination  a  little  runs  away  with  him.  M.  Dore  is 
wonderful  for  restoring  scraps  of  middle-age  work,  to 
say  nothing  of  his  fanciful  rendering  of  the  seven  circles 
of  the  Inferno,  which  he  never  saw ;  but  even  with  his 
touch  of  exaggeration  it  is  pretty  sure  that  M.  Gustave 

Dore  is  the  only  modern  painter  who  can  “tackle”  a 

glacier  without  getting  the  worst  of  it. 

P’or  really  the  task  is  too  much  for  any  human 
strength.  Vast  spaces  and  gigantic  conglomerations  of 
natural  features  are  little  fitted  for  landscape  treatment. 
Face  to  face  with  the  great  spectacles  of  the  physical  uni¬ 
verse,  man  feels  his  weakness ;  immensity  is  beyond  his 
painting.  On  the  terrace  at  Pan,  at  the  foot  of  the 

Cirque  de  Gavaline,  in  the  Pyrenees,  on  Giotto’s  Tower 
in  Florence,  viewing  the  Jungfrau  from  Interlaken,  un¬ 
der  the  dome  of  St.  Peter’s — in  any  or  all  these  places 
the  man  will  be  carried  away  with  enthusiasm,  but 
the  painter  drops  his  brush.  For  once  he  will  let  his 

art  go  and  admire  with  the  single-hearted  delight  of 
the  everyday  tourist ;  and  if  you  say,  “  What  a  hue 
subject  for  a  picture !  ”  he  will  be  apt  to  shrug  his 


LANDSCAPE. 


270 

shoulders  in  a  way  to  shock  your  self-esteem,  if  you 
have  any. 

l^ut  take  a  painter  to  regions  usually  held  unattrac¬ 
tive,  without  mountains  to  climb  or  torrents  to  cross  or  cas¬ 
cades  to  remind  the  cockney  of  the  miniature  Niagaras 
at  St.  C'loud,  and  he  will  stop  in  delight  to  gaze  at  a 
clump  of  bushes  beside  a  spring,  or  a  house  with  poultry 
clucking  and  hens  pecking  around  it  and  the  family  wash 
drying  on  a  clothes-line.  These  are  poor,  humble  mat¬ 
ters  of  detail  which  M.  Dore  despises ;  yet  M.  Lavieille 
takes  great  pleasure  in  just  such  poor  matters,  and  the 
chances  are  that  he  is  riijht. 

O 

M.  Pelouse’s  “Early  Leaves”  is  one  of  the  prettiest 
bits  in  the  Salon ;  a  wood  whose  naked  boughs  show  that 
the  strong  rain  of  winter’s  blasts  is  just  giving  place  to 
the  soft  breath  of  spring.  Already  the  twigs  are  tufted 
with  tender  crreen,  and  the  oak-l;)ark  begins  to  swell  and 
burst  with  rising  sap,  while  the  birds  break  silence  in 
their  first  timid  attempt  at  song,  and  the  turf  begins  to 
take  on  a  tinge  of  brighter  green.  Solvititr  acris  hions 
grata  vice  vcris  ct  Favosii. 

Every  one  to  his  taste.  M.  Pelouse  affects  the  early 
spring  —  M.  Rapin  the  dying  autumn.  October  often 
comes  to  us  veiletl  in  a  hazy  and  gentle  radiance  which 
is  very  tempting  to  the  artist’s  fancy.  There  is  a  sad 
poetry  in  all  decline  and  fall.  M.  Rapin  is  peculiarly 
happy  in  rendering  the  mournful  hill-slopes  bare  of  their 
pristine  glory  of  vine-leaves,  and  the  melancholy  moun¬ 
tain-peaks  silvered  with  the  first  layer  of  autumn  hoar-frost. 

Pine  rocky  cliffs,  where  the  kingfisher  might  perch, 
and  majestic  oaks  which  might  shelter  the  nightingale, 
make  up  the  elements  of  M.  Zuber’s  picture,  “The  Flon 
at  Massignieu.” 

o 


Hf.AUVAIS  (A.) — A»ioh_^  Th>'  lilies  {Berry);  Winter 


i 


Rapin  ( a. J— /]//// 


i^c's  C  'rcssoj/^/ /crt-Js .  ’ ' 


! 


LANDSCAPE. 


~75 

In  his  picture,  “La  Nuit  Verte,”  M.  Dardoise  has 
recorded  a  curious  effect  of  moonlight  in  some  unnamed 
region,  a  phenomenon  worth  a  report  to  the  Institute,  or 
a  committee  of  scientific  examination  at  least.  The  scene 
looks  like  a  glorified  fairy  tale  where  the  Golden  Fly 
might  hover  and  buzz  about  the  slender  twigs  and  the 
transparent  ideal  waters,  green  as  molten  emerald. 

With  M.  Hareux’s  “Cottage  near  Ouilleboeuf”  we  get 


ZuBER. —  The  Flon  at  Alassig^nicii. 


back  to  real  and  literal  darkness — a  midnight  sketch  of 
gloom  so  dense  that  we  can  barely  make  out  here  and 
there  a  pear-tree,  or  a  pile  of  vegetables,  or  a  melon- 
frame,  and  just  miss  stumbling  into  a  well  like  the  astrol¬ 
oger  in  the  fable.  Just  one  little  shy,  quivering  ray  of 
light  sifts  through  the  closed  shutters  of  the  silent  farm¬ 
house,  and  leaves  us  much  in  the  case  of  the  poor 
peepers  at  the  monkey’s  magic  lantern.  “  Gentlemen  : 


276 


LANDSCAPE . 


Here  you  have  the  sun  and  planets  and  the  story  of 
Adam  and  Eve  and  different  animals  and  Norma7idy  by 
niooiiligJit ! "  The  comparison  fails  in  one  point — M. 
Hareux  has  fora-ot  to  lig-ht  his  lantern.  We  strain  our 
eyes,  and  prick  up  our  ears  to  hear  what  the  painter  may 
have  to  tell  us,  and  are  sorely  tempted  to  fall  foul  of 
him  with  reproaches.  “How,  in  heaven’s  name,”  we  feel 
like  asking,  “  did  you  manage  to  bring  away  any  trace 
of  anything  perceptible  from  the  depths  of  such  pitchy 
gloom;  or,  remembering  them,  how  could  you  paint  them ? 
It  would  have  been  shorter  work  to  take  your  canvas  and 
spill  a  bottle  of  writing-ink  over  it — it  would  have  done 
just  as  well.” 

From  such  a  realm  of  shade,  it  is  pleasant  to  come 
out  into  the  daylight  and  take  a  good  breath  of  fresh  air 
in  the  cheerful  work  of  M.  Eapostolet  and  M.  Paul  Peraire. 
In  their  company  we  may  go  sailing  over  a  stream  as 
charming  as  the  one  Mme.  de  Scudery  gave  us  in  her 
map  to  “Cyrus  the  Great.”  Her  famous  “River  of  Soft 
Sentiment”  seems  to  flow  aorain  in  the  smiling;  bits  of  the 
Seine  at  Port  Louviers  and  at  St.  Denis.  The  water  is  cov¬ 
ered  with  flitting  skiffs  with  their  crews  of  pleasure-seekers 
in  Sunday  clothes,  and  the  little  excursion  steamers  groan 
under  their  deck-load  of  school-boys  and  holiday  youth 
in  general ;  while  all  along  the  bank  the  cockney  angler 
spreads  his  simple  wiles  for  the  hapless  gudgeon,  the 
dreadful  pickerel,  or  the  fleeting  and  fugacious  bream. 
In  all  his  gush  of  artistic  expression,  M.  Eapostolet  ob¬ 
serves  a  certain  moderation ;  but  M.  Paul  Peraire  boldly 
dresses  his  river  in  tints  as  gorgeous  and  dazzling  as  the 
Mediterranean,  and  plants  it  with  nut-trees  and  ash  and 
elm  of  Brobdingnagian  proportions,  for  the  promenade  of 
his  Parisian  Gullivers. 


■y  ' 


V 


SAMOELX  H>XL 


CoosEMANS  (J.  T.)—A'//n-m'  Pluntaiioiis. 


COLLART  (Mine.  M.)— 77/f  Cottage. 


• 


LANDSCA PE . 


28  [ 

M.  Phileas  Roy  has  thought  fit  to  leave  to  posterity 
something  like  a  photograph  of  the  “  Bridge  of  Alma  on 
an  August  Evening.”  Country  people,  who  do  not  know 
how  Paris  looks  in  summer,  may  possibly  buy  M.  Roy’s 
picture.  For  my  part,  I  am  puzzled  to  tell  just  where  the 
painter  stood,  nor  am  I  clear  about  it  yet.  There  is  no 
great  harm  in  copying  scenes  of  every-day  life,  but  then 
you  must  go  about  it  with  the  exceptional  talent  of  Jean 
Steen  or  Van  Ostade.  M.  Roy  gives  us  a  policeman  in 
white  trousers,  a  lady  talking  to  a  shop-clerk,  a  huckster- 


Delpy  (H.  C.  ) — Autumn  Harvest. 


woman  pushing  a  barrow,  a  city  water-cart  man  manu¬ 
facturing  mud  as  he  goes,  while  in  the  background  the 
Trocadero  Palace  looms  magnificent  in  its  two  Moorish 
towers  and  the  Mercie  statue  of  Fame,  which  looks  so 
for  all  the  world  like  a  fly  on  a  lemon — a  whole  series 
of  details,  in  short,  which  will  prove  very  edifying,  no 
doubt,  as  historic  documents  for  the  researches  of  the 
next  century.  When  Ouicherat  or  Edouard  Fournier,  or 
any  other  of  the  great  investigators  of  future  days,  shall 
anxiously  propound  some  momentous  question  as  to  the 


282 


LAN  DSC  A  PE. 


trousers  worn  by  policemen  in  August  under  the  Third 
Republic,  the  aspiring  student,  who  has  routed  out  M. 
Roy’s  picture  from  the  archives  of  some  up-country  mu¬ 
seum,  will^  be  sure  of  a  prize  from  countless  archaeological 
societies,  and  the  doors  of  the  Institute  will  open  for  his 
coming. 

What  is  to  become  of  poor,  painting  plebeians,  when 
the  great  and  noble  of  the  earth  begin  to  dabble  with 
the  brush  ?  The  family  of  Chabran  is  famous  for  blood 
and  lineage,  from  the  days  of  Alfonso  II.  down  to  the 
present  day ;  yet  M.  Elzear  de  Sabran,  as  he  modestly 
entitles  himself  in  the  catalogue,  not  content  with  his 
inherited  honors,  steps  into  the  arena  of  art  and  sets 
himself  to  rival  the  poor  simple  folk  who  smudge  for 
their  daily  bread.  Shall  1  dare  to  confess  that  M.  Elzear 
de  Sabran  does  not,  as  usually  happens  in  such  cases, 
find  his  ancestral  escutcheon  a  sure  ticket  to  mediocrity  ? 
Mis  “  Sigean  Pond”  would  hold  honorable  place  in  a  gal¬ 
lery  of  first-rate  work,  and  in  no  sense  suggests  the  idle 
pastime  of  the  dilettante. 

Next  come  two  foreigners,  from  mutually  distant 
points  of  the  compass.  M.  Smith  -  Hald,  whose  given 
name,  Erithiof,  shows  his  Scandinavian  birth,  has  painted 
“A  Steamer  Station”  on  the  coast  of  Norway.  A  very 
different  thing  from  the  landing-place  at  Bas -  Meudon. 
d'he  handful  of  passengers  waiting  on  the  landing-stage 
look  dull  and  chilly,  and  show  little  alacrity  in  going  on 
board.  I  cannot  help  fancying  that  Shakespeare’s  Hamlet 
would  have  found  his  sadness  only  the  heavier  for  such 
fellow-travellers.  Hamlet,  I  say,  for  who  knows  but  the 
march  of  improvement  may  have  turned  the  storied  Castle 
of  Elsinore  into  a  steamer-landing? 

M.  Amedee  Bandit,  a  Swiss,  cultivates  the  department 


I 


; 


e 


i 


nmuftn.’  -j)  sioyiKj 


f 


1  \ 


i 

i 


L  A  N  D  SC  A  PE . 


287 


of  the  Landes,  or  rather,  sojourns  there,  for  he  would 
have  tough  work  to  cultivate  it.  But  after  all,  to  my 
mind,  the  Landes  have  been  sadly  slandered  by  unimagi¬ 
native  people  who  could  find  no  beauty  in  them,  whereas 
they  really  have  much  of  the  melancholy,  if  monotonous, 
poetry  of  the  Great  Desert.  It  has  become  conventional 
to  find  poetry  in  the  vast  sandy  plain  of  the  Sahara,  yet 
we  cry  out  at  the  dreariness  of  the  Landes  with  their 
great  ocean  sweep  of  pine  and  heather ;  which  is  about 
as  consistent  as  human  notions  generally  are.  hi.  Bandit 
does  not  share  the  popular  prejudice ;  he  loves  to  paint 
lonely  pools  with  their  fringe  of  reedst  and  peasants 
stalking  over  the  plains  on  their  long  stilts,  and  the  stony 
fields,  which  lie  along  the  Gascon  Gulf,  and  relishing  this 
queer  diet  himself,  ends  by  getting  us  to  relish  it  too. 

M.  Theodore  Frere  paints  a  “  Caravan  between 
Mecca  and  Cairo.”  Camel-drivers  squatting  on  the  ground 
to  wait  for  their  lunch  and  coffee,  ami  their  two  beasts 
waiting  for  the  next  start,  while  a  crowd  of  pilgrims 
swarm  among  the  tents  under  the  palm-tree  shade,  and 
high  in  the  warm  evening  sky  long  lines  of  migratory 
birds  are  winging  their  way  to  the  rocks  and  sands  ot 
Arabia  Petraea.  It  is  just  such  a  scene  of  Arab  life  as 
Reyer  or  Delioux  might  set  to  music.  M.  Theodore  Frere 
is  faithful  to  his  old  love  for  the  Fast,  and  meets  with  fit 
return  ;  though  Orientalism  in  art  should  fade  out  every¬ 
where  else,  it  would  never  cease  to  nestle  warmly  in  the 
heart  and  fancy  of  this  earnest,  sincere,  and  ever  interest¬ 
ing  artist. 

And  now,  let  all  lovers  of  fish — fried  fish,  stewed  fish, 
eel- pie,  or  what  not — make  their  respectful  acknowledg¬ 
ments  to  M.  Alphonse  Moutte  for  his  work,  a  piscatorial 
denizen  of  Poissy  casting  his  nets.  The  untechnical  soul 


LANDSCAPE. 


imagines  that  by  just  throwing  out  a  drag  or  a  troll  you 
can  haul  in  any  amount  of  perch  or  shiners.  Far  from 
it;  M.  Moutte  gives  us  a  notion  of  the  trials  of  the  trade, 
which  are  severe  enough  now,  and  will  be  worse  yet, 
when  the  great  collecting  sewer  carries  its  pestiferous 
infection  among  the  pretty  villas  which  dot  the  slopes 
around  Saint-Germain-en-Laye.  M.  Moutte’s  river,  as  it 
is,  looks  as  black  and  nauseous  as  the  Styx ;  let  us  hope 
he  may  not  turn  out  an  unconscious  prophet. 

My  notedjook  contains  sundry  other  scattered  memo¬ 
randa,  the  “honorable  mentions”  not  so  much  of  the  jury 
as  of  the  public  voice.  “A  Morning  at  Chateau-Landon,” 
and  “Fort  of  Pont-Aven,”  by  M.  Defaux. 

“  L’ Isle- Adam,”  by  M.  de  Mesgrigny,  a  pretty  land¬ 
scape,  much  in  the  style  of  one  of  Gretry’s  operas  co- 
mique,  but  too  minute  in  the  painting  of  the  foliage. 

M.  Appian’s  “Last  Snow”  falls  under  the  same  cen¬ 
sure  ;  it  would  be  much  more  satisfactory  without  such 
ostentatious  nicety  in  detail. 

“August  at  Valiere,”  by  M.  Chabry,  a  bit  of  Atlantic 
seascape,  blue  as  larkspur,  whereas  I  never  saw  the  At¬ 
lantic  when  its  color  was  not  something  between  gray 
and  bottle-green  ! 

“  Solitude,”  by  M.  Auquin,  the  rocks  characteristi¬ 
cally  painted  with  the  peculiar  and  well-known  features 
of  the  Limousin  region. 

“  Plains  of  Villers  -  Cotterets,”  by  M.  Japy.  The 
painter,  I  should  say,  is  smitten  with  emulation  of  Mil¬ 
lais’  horizons,  and  squanders  the  air  and  distance  he  so 
admires  as  if  there  were  no  bill  to  pay.  But  really  grand 
and  broad  treatment  of  landscape  is  one  thing,  the  un¬ 
healthy  extravagance  of  the  panorama  another. 

“View  of  Beziers,”  by  M.  Eugene  Baudouin  ;  and,  by 


Dameron  (C.  ¥^.)—Farm.  at  Kcrlavfn  (Finistcre)  Eve>?in. 


i 


■m 


Devk  — ,7  at  M illenunit. 


i  ■ 


THE  PONT 


c 


I 


I 


I 


II 


LANDSCAPE. 


293 


the  same  hand,  “Washerwomen  going  to  the  River  Lez” 
on  the  road  from  Pont- Juvenal  to  Montpellier,  both  bright, 
airy  pictures,  full  of  that  southern  poetry  and  cheerful 
spirit  so  associated  with  the  Langue  d’Oc. 

To  sum  up,  the  French  Landscape  School  this  year 
maintains  the  high  rank  it  took  at  the  World  Exhibitions. 
We  have  had  losses,  to  be  sure :  Corot,  Diaz,  Theodore 
Rosseau,  Villevieille,  and  Chintreuil  could  not  live  forever; 
but  they  have  left  pupils,  who  step  by  step  have  come  to 
wear  their  mantle  with  dignity.  As  I  said  at  the  outset, 
the  traditions  have  somewhat  changed.  Landscape  has 
begun  to  work  on  new  principles  and  in  a  new  direction ; 
but  such  change  is  inherent  in  the  nature  of  art,  and 
the  student  will  find  it  a  long  way  from  the  Loggic  of 
the  Vatican  to  the  ceiling  of  the  Galerie  d’Apollon,  or  the 
sinewy  compositions  of  M.  Puris  de  Chavannes.  It  has 
been  our  desire  to  point  out,  as  nearly  as  possible,  all  the 
noteworthy  landscape  in  the  Salon  this  year ;  for  any 
possible  omissions  we  beg  the  indulgence  of  the  sufferer — 
it  was  our  oversight  and  not  our  intent.  In  the  bewilder¬ 
ing  multitude  of  three  thousand  nine  hundred  and  fifty- 
seven  contributions,  the  critic  may  be  pardoned  if  he  some¬ 
times  lose  his  head  ;  very  [rrobably  we  may  have  need  of 
the  e.xcuse.  But  let  unappreciated  genius  take  comfort ! 
Just  because  it  is  genius,  it  is  sufficient  unto  itself  and 
needs  not  our  feeble  approval. 


DANIEL  BERNARD. 


c 


t 


ff 


LI’^T  me  preface  my  review  of  the 
military  department  of  the  Sa¬ 
lon  with  an  expression  of  regret  that 
it  missed  the  names  of  two  painters 
who  have  lately  taken  first  rank  in 
this  line.  I  mean  M.  de  Neuville  and 
M.  Detaille.  Their  absence  is  of  a 
kind  to  be  unavoidably  felt ;  none  the 
less  that  the  greater  part  of  the  mili¬ 
tary  canvases  this  year  entirely  fail  to 
offer  any  adequate  compensation. 

It  looks,  altogether,  very  much  as  if  our  best  and  most 
popular  painters  of  military  subjects  had  mutually  agreed  to 
send  nothing  to  this  E.xhibition.  No  contril)ution  comes 
from  M.  Berne-Bellecour  who  won  such  repute  with  his 

a96 


296 


MIL  ITAR  V  L  IF  E. 


“Cannon  Shot,”  nor  from  M.  Protais,  whose  way  of  telling 
a  tale  of  soldierly  adventure  has  such  fascination  for  the 
female  soul.  Of  all  our  really  distinguished  painters,  M. 
Dupray  alone  makes  his  appearance  with  one  of  his  delight¬ 
ful  works,  as  clever  in  conception  as  in  execution.  It  is 
greatly  to  be  hoped  that  Messrs,  de  Neuville  and  Detaille, 
who  have  been  tempted  away  to  England  this  year,  will 
not  delay  giving  us  another  chance  to  admire  a  new  spe¬ 
cimen  of  their  handiwork ;  we  urge  it  for  our  own  satis¬ 
faction,  and  somewhat,  too,  for  their  own  sake. 

Such  as  they  are,  the  military  pictures  this  year  prove 
to  demonstration  that  the  “grand”  school  of  battle  painting 
is  dead  once  for  all,  and  that  in  all  Europe,  just  now,  there 
is  not  an  artist,  M.  Matejko  not  excepted,  who  can  bring  it 
to  life  again.  Baron  Gros  himself  could  not  do  it,  though 
he  should  come  back  from  the  other  world  on  purpose. 
Our  military  painters  have  frankly  and  fa’rly  taken  up  the 
line  of  study  and  physiologic  observation,  first  traced  out 
by  Charlet,  with  his  old  soldier  Raffct,  and  his  African 
chasseurs  and  turcos,  bristling  with  literal  accuracy  and 
verisimilitude,  and  by  Horace  Vernet  himself  with  his  little 
bits  of  military  episode,  and  anecdote  told  on  canvas.  The 
evolution  which  they  first  set  going  has  moved  slowly  but 
surely  on.  The  events  which  have  passed  under  our  own 
eyes — with  the  instruction  they  carried  to  the  mind  of  an 
artist — and  the  broad  universal  set  and  tendency  of  the 
age,  which  from  day  to  day  more  forcibly  enjoins  sincere 
study  and  nice  observation  of  persons  and  things,  all  have 
contributed  to  swell  the  current  and  enforce  the  lesson. 
We  have  got  it  now  by  heart.  Military  painting  will  never 
again  essay  the  hopeless  task  of  setting  before  us  on  a 
few  leet  of  canvas,  fabulous  and  impossible  combats,  with 
whole  battalions  writhinsj  and  struo^tjlinof  in  a  wild  confu- 


Dupray  (L.  H.)  —  Casting  a  Shoe. 


■ 


■  ’■ '  ■  ■ 


Sergknt  (L.  C.)~Firui!r  the  First  Shot.  August  30,  1870. 


MILITARY  LIFE. 


301 


sion  of  a  heady  fight,  compositions  crammed  with  studied 
and  dramatic  horrors,  for  which  the  artist  has  drawn  en¬ 
tirely  on  his  own  fancy.  The  military  painting  of  the  day 
will  aim  to  interest  us  in  the  real  and  human  features  of 
Avar  and  Avarriors,  to  stir  our  sensibilities  not  so  much  by 
the  fury  and  turmoil  of  the  ensemble,  as  by  the  expression 
of  emotion,  by  conscientiously  rendering  the  various  feel¬ 
ings  Avhich  animate  the  soldier  in  his  dreary  duty  of  slay¬ 
ing  his  felloAv-men.  And  more  than  this  :  it  Avill  paint  him 
as  a  man,  Avith  his  OAvn  peculiar  features,  movements,  and 
attitudes,  in  all  the  occupations  of  his  daily  life. 

In  this  Avay,  and  this  only,  do  the  three  cleA^er  artists 
above  mentioned  understand  their  art—  Messrs,  de  Neu- 
ville,  Detaille,  and  Dupray.  With  all  their  difference  of 
endoAvment,  temperament,  and  character,  the  three  men 
concur  in  the  rare  perfection  Avith  Avhich  they  delineate  the 
type  of  the  French  trooper  in  all  its  varying  phases  and 
manifold  forms.  De  Neuville,  Avho  leans  to  the  emotional 
and  dramatic  side  of  his  study,  sees  him  as  he  is  in  action, 
and  paints  his  energy,  boldness,  careless  courage,  and  good 
natured  jollity  in  the  midst  of  danger.  Detaille  subjects 
him  to  minuter  scrutiny,  analyzes  him,  turns  him  inside  out. 
He  can  count  you,  Avith  equal  readiness,  the  buttons  on  his 
jacket,  or  the  beats  of  his  heart.  He  has  him,  so  to  speak, 
at  his  fingers’  ends,  from  the  tip  of  his  pompon  to  the  seam 
of  his  gaiters;  and  paints  him,  just  as  he  is,  Avith  a  avou- 
drous  skill  and  vivacity  Avhich  never  fails  him.  Dupray 
takes  him  as  he  comes  out  of  garrison,  folloAvs  him  to  his 
seat  on  the  guard-house  bench  if  he  is  on  guard,  or  if  oft 
duty,  lounging  along  the  bastion  Avith  his  sweetheart,  or 
junketing  in  suburban  beer-gardens  on  Sunday,  or  at  “his 
uncle’s,”  Avhen  he  has  to  resort  to  “the  spout.”  He  excels 
particularly  in  his  Avay  of  draAving  him  in  the  saddle,  Avith  all 


302 


MILITARY  LIFE. 


his  Specific  dragoon  movements  and  attitudes  of  planting  him 
firmly  in  his  seat,  and  making  him  one  with  his  horse.  And 
so  the  three  artists  mutually  supplement  each  other,  all  there 
together  paint  the  French  trooper  in  his  fullest  expression. 

M.  Dupray,  as  I  have  said,  is  the  only  one  of  the 
triad  who  exhibits  this  year.  His  picture,  “  Casting  a 
Shoe,”  gives  us  a  village  street,  with  two  gendai'ines  in 
gaudy  uniforms  halting  before  a  blacksmith’s  shop — one 
sitting  still  while  the  other  dismounts.  The  gendarmes,  we 
know,  are  lordly  fellows  who  hate  waiting ;  so  the  whole 
shop  is  in  a  buzz  of  excitement.  While  Gomas,  who 
now  carries  on  the  business,  if  we  may  believe  the  sign, 
hastily  dons  his  leather  apron  and  gray  velveteen  cap, 
Gomas,  junior,  the  heir-apparent  of  the  smithy,  hurries, 
nail-box  in  hand,  toward  the  horse  that  has  cast  the  shoe, 
now  standing  quietly  with  the  rider  at  his  head.  The 
whole  village  is  in  a  stir,  and  all  the  neighbors  have  come 
to  the  door  to  watch  the  operation,  while  a  dog  barks  at 
safe  distance  from  the  horses’  heels  and  a  woman  sfoes 
by  pushing  her  barrow  along  the  white  and  dusty  high¬ 
way.  Further  down  the  road  we  catch  a  glimpse  of  the 
cure  takinq  his  recrular  constitutional  after  mass.  The 
whole  story  is  told  in  a  very  subtle,  clever,  and  life-like 
way.  The  small  figures  are  painted  with  incomparable 
freedom  and  boldness,  to  each  character  its  own  appro¬ 
priate  movement,  and  all  with  an  ease  and  vivacity  which 
have  the  most  life-like  effect.  The  attitude  and  expression 
of  Gomas  the  elder  are  especially  happy.  What  was  he 
about  when  the  policemen  came  to  claim  his  services  ? 
That’s  no  one’s  business,  here  he  is  now,  anyhow;  so 
hurry !  another  strap  round  that  hoof,  there  you  are,  he 
is  quite  at  your  service.  All  this  hurry  and  bustle  is  put 
into  a  gesture  with  surprisingly  realistic  force. 


Du  Pa'I  y  {  L. ) — 0>?  the  'I'rain. 


•  ‘  ‘  -fi  i'- 


■  ''  .t^;- 
yy,  ".■*  ■ 

:  -i'.  - 


M 


y  »'xn. 
.'“'S  >■’" 


MILITARY  LIFE. 


307 


The  scrap  of  village  landscape  where  all  this  goes 
on  is  very  spirited  in  touch,  yet  very  true  to  nature. 
“Casting  a  Shoe”  has  altogether  an  original  and  indi¬ 
vidual  quality  about  it  which  may  help  to  console  us  for 
the  dreary  conventionality  of  most  of  the  other  contribu¬ 
tions. 

In  a  very  different  line,  M.  C.  Blant,  a  young  artist 
of  excellent  promise,  has  done  himself  credit  with  a  pic¬ 
ture  which  is  as  well  executed  as  it  is  strouQf  and  stir- 
ring  in  composition.  The  theme  is  borrowed  from  the 
war  in  Vendee,  a  choice  of  subject  dealing  with  scenes 
of  civil  turmoil  for  which  M.  C.  Blant  shows  decided 
preference  and  as  decided  ability.  Last  year  he  gave  us 
Larochejacquelin  leading  his  chonans  to  battle ;  this  year 
his  canvas  is  entitled  “Formed  in  Square.” 

On  a  hill  near  Fougeres,  a  little  squad  of  republican 
soldiers,  the  “Blues,”  are  surprised  and  surrounded  by  a 
swarm  of  foes,  and  the  gray-bearded  old  commander  gives 
the  order  to  form  square  and  begin  firing.  Straightway 
from  all  four  sides  of  the  square,  bursts  forth  the  blaze 
and  rattle  of  musketry.  While  some  of  the  c/ionans  with 
their  dropping  fire  from  the  neighboring  bushes  and  cop¬ 
pice,  open  ugly  gaps  in  the  ranks  of  the  column,  others 
rush  up  to  the  assault  with  guns  and  farm-tools,  to  make 
short  work  of  the  little  band  of  heroes.  But  the  wall  of 
men  is  wary  and  firm.  Wrai)ped  in  smoke,  and  half-hidden 
by  the  heaps  of  dead  and  dying,  it  keeps  its  solid  front 
and  spreads  death  among  the  enemy’s  ranks  with  a  cool 
and  stubborn  bravery  before  which  the  insurgent  peasan¬ 
try  will  be  fain  to  give  back. 

Such  is  the  excellent  work  which  has  won  its  author 
— along  with  outspoken  public  approval — a  second  medal 
from  the  Jury.  M.  C.  Blant  claims  our  warmest  con- 


3o8 


sM  I  LIT  ARY  LIFE. 


gratulation.  The  composition  is  highly  dramatic,  and  the 
arrangement  faultless.  In  the  slain  insurgents  scattered 
over  the  right  foreground,  many  of  them  half-hidden  by 
occasional  patches  of  high  grass,  he  has  given  us  some 
fine  bits  of  strong  masculine  execution.  The  ground  too 
is  also  solidly  painted  and  good  in  perspective  and  effect 


Le  Blant  (J.) — Charge  of  the  Batallion — Battle  of  I'otigcres,  1793.  (Fragment.) 

of  distance.  The  band  of  clionans  rushing  up  at  the  left, 
calls  for  more  qualification.  The  outlines  seem  to  me  too 
sharply  cut  out  against  the  gray  of  the  sky,  without 
sufficient  gradation  of  tone ;  and  the  various  figures  of' 
the  party  might  have  been  better  grouped  and  blended 
in  a  way  to  produce  a  more  picturesque  and  harmonious 
relation.  Rut,  these  slight  defects  notwithstanding,  M.  C. 
Riant’s  picture  is  one  of  the  kind  which  by  their  inherent 
interest,  as  well  as  their  technical  excellence,  claim  ap¬ 
proval  from  artists  and  public  alike. 


JuGl.AR  H.) — The  spy. 


t 


C- 


■i 


■v> 


n 


■f 


,ii 


JazeT  (  P.  L.  ) — Departm-e  of  the  Squadron. 


3. 

'4 


.  -il. 


-a 


MILITARY  LIFE. 


313 


M.  Girardet  finds  in  the  history  of  Spanish  warfare  a 
subject  for  an  important  work  hung  in  one  of  the  rooms 
of  the  foreign  section.  It  represents  an  episode  of  the 
siege  of  Saragossa,  and  is  directly  taken  from  Francois 
Coppee’s  poem,  “The  Benediction.” 

After  the  entry  of  the  French,  a  party  of  monks  and 
citizens  have  gathered  on  the  church  steps,  resolved  to 
sell  their  lives  dearly.  Some  of  them  have  barricaded 
and  garrisoned  the  buildings,  while  others  await  the 
enemy  at  the  door.  The  French  rush  on  to  the  attack, 
and  one  of  them  has  fallen,  brained  with  a  crucifix  by  a 
monk  likewise  stretched  on  the  flag-stones  by  the  shots 
of  the  enemy.  Another  monk,  armed  with  another  crucifix, 
swings  it  like  a  mace,  for  a  blow  at  the  first  man  who 
comes  near,  and  one  soldier  has  Qrot  a  staQ^srerins!'  knock 
in  the  attempt.  At  the  top  of  the  steps  are  two  other 
monks,  one  holding  out  the  monstrance  as  if  to  call 
down  vengeance  on  the  sacrilegious  invaders,  the  other 
clinging  to  his  side  ;  but  the  square  is  filling  with  French 
soldiers  from  every  side,  and  the  mad  resistance  must 
soon  end. 

M.  Girardet’s  picture  is  evidently  dramatic  in  choice 
of  subject,  and  the  composition  does  it  justice.  Though 
far  from  being  as  good  as  M.  C.  Blant’s  picture  just 
alluded  to,  it  has  some  bits  which  are  very  meritorious. 
In  the  figure  of  the  white  clad  monk  brandishing  his 
crucifix  before  bringing  it  down  on  his  adversary’s  head, 
the  backward  swing  and  muscular  effort  of  the  arms  are 
very  energetic,  as  the  skull  of  the  old  soldier  rushing  up 
in  the  foreground  can  testify. 

The  soldiers  are  a  trifle  confused  in  grouping ;  in 
the  mixture  of  legs  it  is  hard  to  assign  them  all  the 
right  owners.  The  old  soldier  just  mentioned,  with  all 


314 


MI  LIT  A  R  y  LIFE. 


his  running-  does  not  run,  but  sticks  fast  in  full  career. 
The  right  leg  is  raised  and  ought  to  be  off  the  ground, 
but  by  bad  management  of  the  shadow  seems  to  rest  on 
the  pavement,  and  is  too  long  to  foot. 

The  general  tone  of  the  picture  is  good  ;  neither  too 
bright  nor  too  sober,  and  the  buildings  round  the  square 
are  well  put  and  well  painted.  The  most  serious  objec¬ 
tion  to  the  work  is  its  lack  of  individuality ;  the  painter 
seems  under  the  influence  of  both  Horace  Vernet  and  de 
Neuville,  especially  the  latter. 

“Departure  of  the  Squadron”  is  the  title  of  M.  Jazet’s 
contribution,  and  very  pleasant  and  sentimental  it  is.  A 
non-commissioned  officer  of  cuirassiers,  before  quitting  the 
village  where  his  squadron  has  halted,  tries  to  get  a  kiss 
from  a  pretty  girl,  who  is  warding  off  the  attack,  but  with 
a  faintness  of  resistance  that  consorts  ill  with  her  ostensi¬ 
ble  severity,  while  a  saucy-looking  wench  beside  her  seems 
urging  that  she  might  as  well  give  in ;  for  a  kiss  or  two 
once  in  a  way,  or  oftener,  is  no  killing  matter. 

Will  he  get  the  kiss,  or  will  he  not?  Whichever 
he  does  it  won’t  help  the  picture,  which  is  fairly  drawn, 
but  thin  and  untrue  in  color. 

M.  Lancon  sticks  to  his  warlike  subjects,  and  his 
mind  seems  still  wandering  through  the  labyrinth  of  suf 
fering  of  the  terrible  invasion  year.  His  picture  recalls  to 
mind  one  of  the  bloodiest  contests  of  the  Rhine  campaign, 
where  the  French,  after  driving  the  Prussians  out  of  the 
village  of  Monzon,  took  care,  before  following  up  their  ad¬ 
vantage,  to  shelter  their  dead  and  wounded  from  the  sun 
beneath  a  cart  to  which  a  horse  was  tethered.  The  Prus¬ 
sians,  resuming  the  offensive,  drove  the  French  back  in  the 
village,  where  they  fought  as  skirmishers  from  house  to 
house,  and  this  return  is  the  theme  the  painter  has  chosen. 


r 


JUGLAR  (V.  }l.)~T/ie  .S>v. 


It 


1 


'J 


-f 


Lanc^ON  (A.) — ll'a/-  {F7'a^7ncfif). 


* 


C' 


1: 


\:i 


J 


MILITARY  LIFE. 


319 


M.  Lancon  is  a  worthy  artist,  and  one  of  our  most 
noted  animal  painters ;  some  of  his  lions  and  lionesses 
are  capital  bits  of  work.  As  a  draughtsman  of  military 
scenes  too,  he  is  much  sought  after  by  publishers  of  illus¬ 
trated  books.  Unfortunately  with  all  these  good  qualities 
he  is  but  a  second-  or  third-rate  artist.  His  “War”  is  cor¬ 
rectly  drawn  and  well-arranged,  but  the  unpleasant  color 
spoils  the  effect.  Still  some  parts  are  praiseworthy  enough. 


PoiLLEUX  Saint-Anoe  - — Reception  of  Prefect  Valentin  ly  General  Vhrick. 


Another  young  painter  of  military  scenes  is  M.  Du 
Paty.  He  sends  two  pictures  this  year,  both  of  them  in¬ 
dicating  the  real  artistic  temperament.  One  of  them  is 
a  bivouac  at  the  untimely  hour  when  the  soldiers  are 
roused  out  of  their  slumber  and  their  tents  by  the  tattoo 
of  the  reveille,  when  day  is  just  breaking,  and  a  general 
chorus  of  cock-a-doodles  rises  from  all  the  neighboring 
villages  and  farms.  M.  Du  Paty’s  picture  shows  us  the 


320 


MILITA_RY_  LIFE. 

men  at  the  important  business  of  getting  their  morning 
coffee,  gathering  around  their  pots  and  pans  in  pictur¬ 
esque  groups  lit  only  by  the  fire-light. 

His  second  picture,  “On  the  Train,”  gives  us  a  party 
of  the  reserves,  crowding  the  seats  of  a  railway  carriage 
and  killing  time  as  best  they  may,  on  their  tedious  way  to 
join  their  corps,  in  singing,  chattering,  drinking,  reading,  or 
musing.  Each  of  these  minute  faces  has  its  own  individual 
character  and  expression,  for  they  are  painted  with  a  free 
and  skilful  pencil  by  an  artist  of  taste  and  knowledge. 

Among  the  other  military  sketches  of  the  year,  I 
must  pass  with  mere  mention  “  Reception  of  Prefect 
Valentin  by  General  Uhrich,”  by  M.  Poilleux  Saint-Ange  ; 
“  George,  Prince  of  Wales,  reviewing  the  Grenadier 
Guards,”  by  M.  Armand  Dumarescq;  “There  they  are!” 
a  conscientious  bit  of  work  with  some  merit  by  M. 
Peaumetz  ;  and  finally  “They  are  at  Home,”  by  M.  Philip- 
poteaux  ;  a  very  faint  reminder  indeed,  of  the  same  artist’s 
fine  canvasses  at  the  Louvre  and  the  Luxembourg — 
“Bonaparte  at  Rivoli,”  and  “  Louis  XV.,”  two  works  which 
may  rank  among  the  very  best  in  the  department  of  mili¬ 
tary  and  historical  art. 

GUSTAVE  GCETSCHY. 


,  •  C  u. 


.  ...  .•'  %  -•  ■■  ■-  ^  .^■■ 

:»/^-..\;.';.r'  r  ■  v  v--'  ■ 

_.  ^  ’''xei  <  uV  ..  • 


.‘Vx  '  .,  vV  ' ''■’■^5^' 


:,V>4 

■;  ■  -  ■  VJT'  > 


•  '  ;V'  -  5r  ^  ’ 


,- :  '7f;#wXv  ;<*»  ..  .•:'^'  ••.“>•  ,.  /•*’  i, 

';  •cv**’-  ■'.  *  '•  '•  ^ -•  V*-  .  -• 

■■i'’ ■■> -^ ■ ’’^  '  .'■■:  ■/  -,  '  ■■•  .  .  .V. 

I '^v  .•:--r>-'  "  • 

r  "“.A  S  '  ■  '  ■  -•  '-*-f-  •■'.'*?. 

-■-r'^'.V''-’’- ;  '  ■•  sV'-  ;-•'  '■-  '  ^ 

■>.:'■■*»'■•  .  ■  '  ■  .i'-'x-.  ri-',,  ■  '.  ',  ■  -■ 

-  -  .  .-  •  ■  ’  I  -X''  ■  '  ■■  -  N  ,■  ' 


'■•  •  '.o- 

•  I  '  •  j. 

/  .  ■  .. 


« 


o':'  -  ■  .  . '^  i-:.^  -- '«.«  '■ 


■  ;,  >'.  X  •  =  r-.-k.'..  '  •  . 


rW,. 

iv.?  v  - 


-.  -.  :=p.s.4m 

.  Y  *  .-  ■•  4  .  •  •  I  . 


■  ■  <■ 


X  ■/•  ; 

«  :;iA« 


<•  •;'>.* 

Jl-  .  .  -  A. 


'  •ii-'*'*  ^  /-ji 


‘S'  •-■ 

'  .  *  ♦  ^  *5. 

■  I  ':^i  - 


-•'  - -^•-"...'•*?‘;*  'X  i.1 


U-'M/ 

'  V  y.^ 


K'< 


:--W' 


1^' 


-f 


•7  % 


rV'.;' 


.''')^5>=l^J''<is.  .*',  '  -f ‘'v'rt.'*^  S'- 

*  '•'i,'''  >  '  *  ...t.  '•  •!••>. ^'.■■'•4. 

^  A.-*,'-  c'  ■  .  ■•  •■'  ■  .  •,;  ■■ 

•.'  ?•  +  '  .'i'‘.ii3-  -j  V,-'  .  ■;  ‘ 


"T^Vv--* 
^.''.Wa  ;  ;,.4'v'' .» 


V."  fiiy~.- 
-'  r'v-  ■'  'f  . '-.' 

r- 

’^i'^'*'’’  ".''''■‘ri'-''  ■>■' '^^  •■.■.■< 


v  .V  '  ir';-?-:,:-' 

/’s.-ji'V •  ■■• 

‘fv^;.V.-.Ji^^.;  ' . 

(^  <*-,S-  J*-!  ' V\.  '’i*‘  ■' 

■  //' 

tt>>:-:V:^'-:;;.  ■' V 

-V  '■ 

'•' "  ■■  ■'’• 

-  .•.:>■ 

5- -,  ;  ^ 

^'-.'ii;  '  '■  ■  ■',  k. 


GETTY  CENTER  LIBRARY 


3  3125  00736  3001 


